Fallen Eagle
by The-Stupidest-Author-Ever
Summary: After the fall of the Assassins, Selah is now a full member of the Templar Order of the Colonial Rite. But as civil unrest grows, a revolution will rise. In the birth of a new nation, a new Brotherhood will form, and loyalties will be tested. [REWRITE]
1. Prologue

**Hello, everyone! This is the rewrite version of** _ **Fallen Eagle**_ _,_ **a sequel to my earlier fanfiction,** _ **Crossed Eagle.**_ **Looking back over it, I found several errors and realized that I was not satisfied with it as a whole. Majority of the content will be the same, but chapters will be edited and even new scenes will be added.**

 **This will be based on the events of** _ **Assassin's Creed III**_ **, so a lot of the scenes will be based on the franchise, but I will change it up so it's still entertaining.**

 **I like to welcome back any readers and new ones are welcomed. To those who are new, I recommend you go back and read** _ **Crossed Eagle**_ **, but if not, read on.**

 **Also, I have hectic schedule with school and other things. I will attempt to make weekly updates to a certain point, but there may be a chance I will fail to do so.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed III or anything that has to do with Ubisoft**

 **Warnings: language, explicit violence, situations of angst, racial slurs**

* * *

The pounding of hooves on the hard ground filled the air.

 _Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent._

The wind howled as the trees danced wildly, their leaves flying away in swarms. Their arm-like branches reached out, like they were to snatch any who passed by.

 _Hide in plain sight._

The sun shined brilliantly overhead, radiating warmth and light poured through the forest canopy. Shadows danced across the ground, their darkness looking a strange contrast in the beautiful daylight.

 _Never compromise the Brotherhood._

Another set of hooves joined the first, this one accompanied by the frustrated shouts of a man. More were quickly to follow.

 _These are the tenets of the Creed._

The horse whinnied when a swift kick was delivered to his sides, but he continued to gallop.

 _Tenets I used to live by. But now…_

The stallion whinnied in protest as his rider pulled the reins hard, causing the beast to rear. Selah spun her upper body around, holding out a flintlock. A flash of red appeared through the trees, several more quickly appearing.

 _Now I follow the Father of Understanding._

The Templar fired, sending the British soldier falling from his horse and crashing to the ground, shattering his skull on impact. Selah re-holstered her weapon and spun back around, spurring the gelding onwards. The shouts of the redcoat patrol echoed behind her, the hooves of their steeds almost deafening her sensitive hearing. The pounding of her racing heart didn't help. Sweat formed a thin layer on her skin, having her clothes stick to her body. The sticky wetness of blood on her neck still oozed from her wound.

The forest soared by in green streaks, shadow and light dancing across her vision. The distorted world was broken when suddenly the gelding crashed into a creek, throwing white water into the air and drenching the young woman. She kicked the horse to urge him back on land, but now the regulars were close. Selah had just spun her horse around a tree when the crack of a musket sounded, splintering the bark next to her ear.

The Templar galloped through the forest, never halting her near-lame steed for a moment. Branches and leaves slapped in her face, leaving bleeding scrapes and bruises. Selah paid no mind. She was too distracted with more pressing matters. The British soldiers remained hot on her heels, eager to capture their prey. But Selah had spent almost her entire life in the frontier. She knew it more than almost any man alive. Meanwhile the regulars had difficulty navigating through the trees, obviously not used to chasing fugitives through the wilderness.

It wasn't long before their cursing and roars faded behind her, swallowed up by the quiet of the forest. Replacing their shouts was the heavy respiration of the Templar's gelding, yellow crust on his lips and eyes glazed. He was well beyond his limits. Selah panted along with him and her heart was hammering against her ribs. Her long, black hair tickled her face and stuck to the accumulating blood on her neck. Selah still pushed on, but took pity on her animal by slowing him to a canter.

Now to—

A blast of a musket deafened the Templar's hearing. The horse let out a high-pitched scream as he crashed onto the ground. Instead of throwing his rider off, Selah was crushed underneath the beast's weight, the animal completely on top of the lower half of her body.

Disoriented, the woman moaned as she tried to pull herself from underneath her prison, but it was of no use. Suddenly the thunder of hooves reached her ears. The Templar looked up to see a British captain on his own horse, coming to a halt within the clearing. Aiming a loaded musket at her. The man gave a wicked sneer.

Panicked, Selah pulled to free herself from her prison, but her legs did not move. They were trapped. The woman fumbled for her second flintlock, only to realize with horror she wouldn't be fast enough.

A _crack_ of gunfire echoed.

Selah instinctively shut her eyes, bracing for the musket to tear into her flesh. The Templar felt no pain.

Opening her eyes, she watched with a confused gaze as the soldier's face fell and his eyes glazed. He lowered his musket and simply sat on the saddle, unmoving. Finally gravity gained a hold on him, having the corpse slide off of the horse and crash onto the earth with a thud. Behind him, Selah saw her savior.

It was a man with a dark coat wrapped around his body, only exposing a crimson waistcoat underneath. The coat was adorned with Templar symbols. The man tied his dark hair back in a makeshift queue and his eyes were even darker than his outfit. A thin, pale scar cut across his right eye. His gaze was narrowed as he lowered his still-smoking flintlock.

Instead of showing her gratitude, Selah demanded, "Is it done?"

Shay Cormac's dark gaze was it all. _No_.

Suddenly a distant rumbling came, having a sense of horror fall over the woman. Finally gaining leverage and wiggling free from her confines, the Templar jumped to her feet. She ignored the soreness in her body. Selah raced to the treeline, only to be greeted with a sea of red.

A stampede of horses went down a hill, carrying an entire cavalry of British soldiers. They looked like that army of Satan, being led by the God of the Dead himself. He sped ahead on a beautiful silver stallion, his cool blue clothing contrasted greatly with his comrades'. His glistening silver hair contrasted greater with his shadowed, stern face-his dark eyes narrowed dangerously. He waved a flintlock in the air, even firing it to rally his troops.

Ahead of the army was the wood of the forest, but it was arranged in tall, well-placed structures. Longhouses made of pale branches stood in the soldiers' wake, surrounded by a tall barrier that would be shattered beneath the stampede. A native village.

" _No_!" Selah screamed.

The Templar lunged forward, only to be locked in place. Her hands claws at the foreign limbs around her waist. Suddenly the horrid scene before her was receding, causing her flails to become more frantic.

"No! Let me go, Shay!" Selah protested. The elder Templar ignored her, seeming oblivious to her painful strikes and ear-splitting screeches. "We need to stop them!"

"It's too late now," Shay retorted, "there's nothing we can do."

Selah continued her struggling protests as the Irishman half-dragged, half-carried her back into the shelter of the forest. Before the surrounding trees completely engulfed her, the former Assassin caught a glimpse at the God of the Dead once again.

He had drawn his sword and an even darker, wild look appeared in his eyes. His side still bled from when Selah had stabbed him, but he seemed to be oblivious. The Templar's wound still throbbed from when he had shot her in retribution for the assassination attempt.

Now he was to kill innocents.

Selah raised her voice to a deafening roar that seemed to echo across the valley.

"GODDAMN YOU, GEORGE WASHINGTON!"


	2. Part I: Hunting Lessons

_"_ ISTA _!_ ISTA _!"_

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton was surrounded by fire. Great dancing walls of scarlet towered above him, eating away at the wooden structures of his village. Villagers ran in all directions, trying to escape the burning heat that engulfed them, all the while screaming and calling for their loved ones._

 _"My son! Where are you, my son?"_

 _"I am here, mother!"_

 _But where was Ratonhnhaké:ton's mother? The boy's gaze flew across his surroundings. Instead of seeing the familiar form of his mother, he only saw his world crumbling around him. He ignored the motionless bodies strewn across the ground. Competing with the brightness of the flames was the hazy smoke filling the air, stinging Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes and burning his throat. The young native screamed in fear as suddenly a deafening noise filled the air._

 _A great tree engulfed by flames fell onto the ground, sending splinters in every direction. Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a sob before darting into a nearby longhouse. Only when he entered the large structure, a horrible crashing sound followed him. The boy looked up in time to see the branches of the roof caving in, sending a shower of sparks to rain on him. Using pure instinct, the native lunged forward out of the deathtrap, ignoring the stings of burns on his skin. A loud popping sounded behind him and the longhouse suddenly became brighter. Ratonhnhaké:ton scrambled to his feet. A fallen canoe was in his way, but the boy was small enough to scramble under it. He was oblivious to the sounds of thunder behind him as the foundation of longhouse collapsed._

 _"_ Ista _!" he yelled desperately._

There _._ _His family's home. He ran to where the entrance normally would be, only to see a barrier of burning branches blockading it. Nonetheless the boy ran to it, not knowing any better that it was no use._ There _!_

 _His mother's form. Her shadowed figure was flailing, as if she was in pain. Her hacks reached Ratonhnhaké:ton's ears, almost as deafening as the falling tree. She was right_ there _. Only separated by a wall of branches. Ratonhnhaké:ton pounded on the barrier._

 _"_ Ista _!" he screamed._

 _He was only replied by a volley of violent coughs. "Ratonhnhaké:ton!" his mother cried. "In here!" Her voice was raspy and strained, nothing like the soothing melody Ratonhnhaké:ton was so used to._

 _"I'm coming!"_

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton was already running around, sprinting towards the opposite entrance that he could use. The flames continued to burn around him, the searing heat scorching his sweat-soaked skin. The native flinched as once again he heard the awful sound of breaking wood, but this time it must have been a gift from the Great Mother. The entire wall of the house collapsed, exposing the interior of his home. Exposing his mother._

 _Ziio was beneath a large pile of burning logs, only the upper half of her body exposed. She flailed madly, obviously trying to escape the crushing weight upon her. It didn't help that she clutched her blood-soaked arm in agony. Blood and burn marks littered her face._

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't hesitate to run over and wrap his arms around a log. At first he gave a sobbing hiss at the excruciating pain from the still-hot embers, but swallowed it down and began to use all the strength he could muster._

 _"No, my son," Ziio's ragged voice came. "You must leave. Now."_

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled at the log. His muscles pulled and quivered from the effort, but the boy only pulled harder. The log did not budge._

 _"No! I'm not leaving you!" he cried._

 _"It's too late for that!"_

 _"Somebody help us!"_

 _Finally Ratonhnhaké:ton's body gave out, having him slump forward onto the burning pile against his will. He cried in pain and surprise. Sniffling, the boy prepared to lift himself up to try again, but suddenly a strong pressure gripped his small hand. Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced up to his mother's hands tightly wrapped around his, keeping him in place. He felt her force something into his palm. The son didn't have to look to know it was her treasured necklace._

 _"You must be strong, Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ziio told him. "You must be brave."_

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't too young not to understand what those words meant._

 _"Stop it! Stop it!" he sobbed. He looked into his mother's eyes, which were just a reflection of his own. The deep-brown eyes were shiny in the firelight, filled with pain and courage, but shadowed by fear and sorrow._

 _"You will think yourself alone," Ziio went on, ignoring her son's protests, "but know I will be at your side. ...Always and forever."_

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton just stared at her, trying to fight the tears spilling from his eyes and to block out her words. No! He had to save his mother!_

 _"I love you…"_

 _Suddenly something wrapped around the boy's torso and he felt himself being ripped away from his mother. Ratonhnhaké:ton desperately flailed against the villager that took him, arms reaching out as if he could pluck his mother from her prison._

 _"NO! LET ME GO! LET ME SAVE HER!"_

 _He looked into his mother's eyes, seeing the tears spilling from them. He watched the fire eat away her skin, the wood above her crushing her legs, the blood pouring from her wounds. Without warning, the wood around Ziio collapsed with a sickening sound, the entire longhouse caving in on her. Ziio was swallowed from Ratonhnhaké:ton's view._

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton let out a long, pained scream that echoed across the entire forest._

 _"_ ISTA _!"_

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton awoke with a scream. He shot up, chest heaving as he panted madly and cold sweat covering his skin, already soaking his deerskin clothing. The native's vision was blurred as disorientation obscured his senses, but eventually they refocused.

Immediately the lush green of the forest came into view. Bright, yellow sunlight shone through the canopy, lighting the forest floor. Off in the distance, a songbird chittered happily. No red flames and blood, no hazy smoke, no lifeless bodies. It was just a dream.

Ratonhnhaké:ton moaned as he slapped his palm to the side of his face. His panting had slowed, but now a fine tremble shook his body. No, it wasn't a dream. That was real. It was an image of the past.

Six summers had passed since his village was burned. Since then it had been rebuilt, all scars from the attack erased. The villagers didn't even speak of it anymore. Everyone shoved it away like it was nothing more than a bad memory. The birds still sang, the hunt continued, and the guarding forest swallowed them once again.

 _But for how long?_ Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered.

He had seen it. How the white men moved closer. It was subtle at first. Ratonhnhaké:ton would never have dreamed of noticing it. But as he grew older and began to hunt, his perception grew sharper and his understanding broadened. He saw them. Inch closer and closer and closer each season. Merchants came more frequently, asking to trade with the village. More and more travelers passed through. Even sometimes when Ratonhnhaké:ton came to a specific spot in the valley, he could see their black smoke rising into the sky. How much longer until instead of the guarding forest, it would be the coatmen's great stone structures surrounding his village? How much longer before the destruction of his home happened again? Who would he lose this time?

The image of his blood-soaked mother flashed across the boy's vision. A bit too abruptly, Ratonhnhaké:ton climbed to his feet. He quickly crossed over to a creek. Without hesitation, he cupped a handful of water in his palms and slapped it to his face. He did this over and over and over. Until the image of red blood over his mother's face began to fade.

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed in agitation and breath. He closed his eyes to test his imagination. The image was near-gone. Knowing it would never go away, Ratonhnhaké:ton judged it was enough as he looked back into the water. Instead of his mother, he finally saw his reflection. He had smooth, dark bronze skin, even darker freckles littering across his cheeks. The boy had a broad face for his people, but it was slender enough to give him a young look. The native's pitch-black hair came to his shoulders, a single braid by his ear. His dark brown eyes were shadowed as they always were, filled with sorrow and pain a boy should never have. _No one_ should have.

With tentative fingers, he reached up to lightly touch the pale mark on his right cheekbone. It was reminder of that day. A reminder of that horrid day every time he looked in his reflection.

Ratonhnhaké:ton groaned as he leaned back on his legs and rubbed his face. The animals would sense his agitation. It would scare away the prey. He was still on the hunt. The native felt guilty for taking a nap—and then waste several minutes contemplating on the past—but he had already collected the needed game and was waiting for his best friend, Kanen'tó:kon to come back from his side of the valley. Speaking of which, where was he? Kanen'tó:kon should be back by now…

Ratonhnhaké:ton slowly rose to his feet and headed towards the direction his friend went. As he walked through the sanctuary of the forest, the young hunter began to feel more peaceful. His negative thoughts began to fade away. But they were still there—and they would return with a vengeance, but now they let the boy be. His racing blood began to cool and his sweat was long gone, leaving a pleasant warmth on his skin. The native's movements were now solid and controlled from his desperate shivering.

Ratonhnhaké:ton took a deep breath through his nose, enjoying the fresh summer air. Already his head felt clearer and his muscles more relaxed than they had in days. Yes, maybe things—

 _"Ratonhnhaké:ton!"_ a voice screamed desperately.

 _"Kanen'tó:kon?"_ the teenager replied, stopping in his tracks.

He narrowed his eyes where the yell had come from. Then without warning a figure barged through the thick brush, almost barging right into him. Ratonhnhaké:ton could only see the wide, white-filled eyes of his friend before Kanen'tó:kon raced past him in a mad sprint of fear. Ratonhnhaké:ton snapped his head to where the native was fleeing, only for the fellow teenager to disappear back into the brush. What?

Then Ratonhnhaké:ton heard the heavy respirations and growling snorts. Oh, no…

The hunter snapped his head back to see a giant, pitch-black mound crash through the bushes more forcefully than Kanen'tó:kon had. Ratonhnhaké:ton stumbled backwards, only for the black bear to skid to a halt and raise itself onto its haunches. The beast opened its jaws wide to let out a bellowing roar, yellow teeth shining in the sunlight with saliva in between. Ratonhnhaké:ton just froze at the sight. Big mistake.

The bear was falling back to all fours, but was swiping a claw-filled paw towards his direction. Immediately Ratonhnhaké:ton leaped back. The animal's savage growls deafened the young hunter's hearing, but he didn't dare stray his gaze from the beast. The bear took a step forward and sent another fatal swipe at the native. Ratonhnhaké:ton stumbled back again, this time a little less gracefully due to fear. Annoyed, the bear then charged forward in attempt to take a bite out of the boy, but the native ducked out of the way.

Hearing the bear's savage growls and feeling its hot breath on the back of his neck—making his hairs stand on end—Ratonhnhaké:ton scampered up the nearest tree. Looking more squirrel than human, he settled between a split in the tree before clawing at the bark to climb into the branches above. He squatted on a branch with his hands keeping him in place, looking down at the bear. Its roars sounded like it was right next to its ear.

The predator roared in rage when it saw its prey had escaped. It stood on its hind legs and clawed madly at the bark in frustration. It even got the idea to cling itself in place and attempt to shimmy up the trunk. It was denied when Ratonhnhaké:ton threw a thick branch at its face. The bear snorted in discomfort and sheathed its claws to slide back down. It only stayed on its hind legs for a moment more before falling to all fours again. The beast paced for a few moments, still growling in agitation. Finally either growing bored or out of ideas—or just deciding it wasn't worth it—the bear turned away with another growl, snorting as it sauntered away.

Ratonhnhaké:ton watched with a weary gaze, a subtle tremble returning to his limbs. That was far too close for comfort. He swore its claws had come a hair-width from his chest. The hunter would have been good as dead. But as he watched the sacred beast stroll away, confusion burned at his mind. How did the bear even get here?

There were no bears in this part of the valley. The river was on the other side, where a lone bear would occasionally search for salmon, but even there they rarely came. And Kanen'tó:kon was nowhere near there in the first place. A bear certainly wouldn't give such a long chase, anyway. Yet this one was agitated enough to try to kill a human being. What had caused its anger?

Connor glanced at the great beast, who was already lumbering away. Either way, he needed to warn the village. Spirits know what would happen if it came across one of the children… The hunter turned to make his way back, but he never had the chance.

Without warning something shot through the air in the bear's direction—so small and fast that Ratonhnhaké:ton thought he imagined it—and the bear let out an almighty roar. It tossed its head with a wide-open mouth. However, the roar was cut off as suddenly it turned into a moan and the beast fell right over on its side with a thump, like the Great Mother had pushed it over. Ratonhnhaké:ton stared at the scene wide-eyed. He almost believed the bear was dead, until its loud growls reached his ears and he saw its sides heaving. It took the teenager a moment to relate the growls to snoring. The bear was _asleep._

If Ratonhnhaké:ton was wide-eyed before, there was no description the size of his of them now. How?! The bear was perfectly fine a moment ago! And it just fell unconscious in literally a blink of an eye. Maybe the Great Mother had touched it. But it was no Great Mother as suddenly the hunter heard a twig snapping from the trees. With a start, the native ducked behind a shield of leaves. The shadow of the canopy hid his form almost perfectly, but he could still see the forest beyond.

That included a tall figure slipping from the woods. Ratonhnhaké:ton ducked further into his hiding spot, but still kept his sharp eyes trained. The man was certainly white, however his face seemed to be a hue of red, more so than the native's people supposedly had. His pitch-black hair was almost as dark as a raven's, glinting in the sunlight with health. It was tied back like some of the coatmen wore. Because it was tied back so tightly, it exposed his face, including a pale scar across his right eye. Like most white men, the stranger wore a pale green coat, looking aged with tatters and discolored stains. Underneath the coat was an undershirt of a similar color and a belt of leather pouches in fine condition. A bundle of rope wrapped around his chest, almost seeming like it held the coat together.

The coatman neared the sleeping bear casually, like he had no fear of it at all. Ratonhnhaké:ton recognized one of the white men's firesticks—what were they called, muskets?—clutched in his hand. However the man raised it over his shoulder to slip it under the bundle of ropes on his back, the weapon staying in place. The stranger then knelt calmly next to the bear, staring at it for a moment. He then extended two fingers towards its neck, pressing against the thick fur. Suddenly he brought his other hand and balled it into a fist. He flicked his wrist, having a shiny, sharp blade materialize. Ratonhnhaké:ton started again. What in the—?

Without warning, the stranger plunged the strange blade into the bear's throat, summoning a jet of blood to fly into the air. The animal gave a growl, but was cut short as death quickly took it. The native just stared. Blades that came out of their wrists? How strange these coatmen were!

He was pulled from his thoughts as a _squelch_ sounded as the stranger quickly removed the blade and dug his wrist-blade back into the bear, skinning it. Ratonhnhaké:ton watched with growing fascination and interest. The man's cuts weren't sloppy and rushed like most coatmen Ratonhnhaké:ton had seen skin animals. They mostly just cut whatever part they desired and left—destroying half the animal in the process when it could've been useful. But the stranger's cuts were precise and controlled—taking great care to not cause unnecessary damage.

Finally Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked from his stare. Wait. He was _skinning_ it. On native land. This was his people's sacred hunting grounds. The village was even a stone throw away! The young hunter found himself bristling. Even if white men appeared more frequently, they rarely came so near to the village. Never mind _hunting_. And Ratonhnhaké:ton very much remembered the last time coatmen neared his home…

Mind made up, the boy dropped from his perch, landing soundlessly on the forest floor. The stranger didn't notice at all, too preoccupied with his work. Stilling his breathing and tensing his muscles, Ratonhnhaké:ton strung a single arrow, as if he would hunting a deer. Suddenly an instinct stopped him. Could he really kill another human being? Ratonhnhaké:ton shook the thought away. No! He couldn't let the white men near his home! But he didn't have to decide any further.

Suddenly the stranger tensed, pausing his work mid-slice. Ratonhnhaké:ton could practically see his muscles stiffening and his hairs standing on end, alerted of danger from an instinct the native did not know. Slowly, subtly, the foreign hunter slid his hand to the hilt of the dagger clipped to his belt. Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a silent gulp and braced to let the arrow fly. The white man's voice stopped him.

"I wouldn't do it, if I were you," he called in English.

His voice was different from other white men. It was deep and was filled with an accent Ratonhnhaké:ton did not know. Realizing he had been caught but having no intention of going back now, the hunter ever so slowly moved to enter the man's line of sight, each move careful. The stranger's pitch-black eyes glanced up at the teenager, mostly at the sharp end of the arrow pointed at him. Ratonhnhaké:ton swore he did not see the dead so still.

The boy swallowed before reviewing his English. He did not know how fluent it sounded, but he prayed his emphasis was correct. "You cannot hunt on these lands."

The stranger remained still, not even blinking. "I thought the Great Mother offered her gifts to everyone."

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. Very few white men understood the concept of his people's beliefs. The native remembered even trying to explain it to a few travelers, only for them to laugh or not believe it. Those who did have knowledge usually mocked it. But there was no condescending tone in the stranger's voice, instead respectable knowledge.

But still. This was a white man trespassing on his people's sacred hunting grounds and was far too close to his village. Furthermore, Ratonhnhaké:ton was quickly connecting the dots how the bear had become so agitated.

"You angered that bear into coming near my village," the teenager said sternly. "It would have caused harm if I had not stopped it."

Now the stranger finally blinked. "Is that so? I didn't realize."

The native only furrowed his eyebrows.

Realizing the boy had no verbal response, the white man almost shrugged. "I've been tracking it the last few days. I didn't expect it to wander so far."

"It 'wandered' to Kanien'kehá:ka sacred hunting grounds," Ratonhnhaké:ton snarled. The boy pulled the string of his bow to express his growing anger. "And _you_ do not belong here."

The man closed his eyes and dipped his head. "So I see." Ratonhnhaké:ton almost released the arrow when suddenly the trespasser rose, but he did so slowly and carefully, keeping his muscles loose. "I'll take my leave, then." The hunter took a step away, jerking his head towards the carcass. "Here, you can have it. It is yours, after all."

Now Ratonhnhaké:ton almost blinked. That was it? The man wasn't going even to argue and would give up just like that? Was he trying something? But the stranger's face was calm, patiently waiting for the teenager to react.

Ratonhnhaké:ton's arms were beginning to strain from holding the arrow in place for so long. He desired for release, and he was still tempted from mistrust to attack the white man. But that hesitation of killing a life stopped him. Then the teenager's eyes fell to the bear. It _would_ serve a lot of meat and fur for the village. But what was he supposed to say? Confess that he took it from a white man? Lie that he had killed it when it attacked him? Both left an unsettling feeling in Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach. The Great Mother offered her gifts to everyone. But it was the stranger who had killed it, proclaiming at she had given _him_ the gift. He had killed the bear fairly with his own skill. Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't find it in himself to cheat him. Taking it from him would be wrong.

"No," the native said slowly. "It is yours. Take it and be gone."

The stranger got the message and knew he should take the offer before the unstable teenager changed his mind. He dipped his head humbly. "Many thanks."

The white man immediately knelt back down and continued his work. Ratonhnhaké:ton stayed at his post, pointing his arrow at the man's head through narrowed eyes. He tried to ignore the growing soreness in his limbs. He may be hesitating to kill the trespasser, but that wouldn't mean he wouldn't do it. Especially with his burning village flashing through his mind with increasing frequency. Suddenly the foreign hunter broke the silence.

"You can put that away," he called nonchalantly. "I know you're not going to kill me."

Ratonhnhaké:ton realized he accidentally lowered the arrow, quickly repositioning it before the white man noticed.

" _No_ ," he refused.

The trespasser shrugged and muttered something. Another pause. "What's your name, lad?"

The teenager finally blinked. No one had asked him that before. A white man, at least. Ratonhnhaké:ton considered refusing him again. It was none of his concern. But it could it hurt?

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," the boy told him.

The stranger paused his work for a split-second to look up without moving his head. The teenager almost rolled his eyes. Really? Was there any white man could comprehend his people's names? He opened his mouth to repeat it, but the man beat him to it.

"Ra-doon-ha-gay-doon," he pronounced slowly.

…He completely butchered it, especially in that accent, but it was close enough. It was certainly much better than others trying to pronounce native names. Ratonhnhaké:ton was silent for a moment before slowly nodding his head, unsure how to really respond. The stranger just went back to his work, which was almost complete by now.

Ratonhnhaké:ton watched him with growing curiosity. The man was certainly a colonist, but watching him as a hunter, he seemed more like a native. He had a calm and knowing demeanor and he kept precise, careful movements of his blade. The native never saw a white man with such qualities.

"Where did you learn how to hunt?" the boy blurted. He immediately bit his tongue, but it was too late.

The man glanced up at him curiously. It took a lot of willpower for the teenager not to squirm in discomfort. But to his surprise, the stranger answered.

"A man named Kesegowaase," he explained. He suddenly smirked with a soft snort, but Ratonhnhaké:ton saw no humor. "Bit of a prick, but he was a good teacher."

A prick? What was that? He was pulled out as his thoughts at the hunter pressed the bear's paw, pulling back the fur to reveal its brown claws. Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes widened and the man whistled. It was the largest claws the native had even seen, each one longer than his fingers. The tip was even sharper than his hunting knife. The boy shuddered when he thought of those very claws ripping into his flesh. Suddenly the man repositioned his dagger to the paw, cutting into the claw.

"What are you doing?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked.

"I think one of these claws will make a good gift for a lass I know," the man replied. He smirked again, this time with a short chuckle. "She's not the hunting type, but I'm sure she'll appreciate the gesture."

The two went into silence then, the foreign hunter gutting out the last of the organs and cleaning the fur of any flesh and blood. By the time he was done, there was nothing but pale skeleton of the former sacred beast and a handful of useless organs and chunks of flesh. The stranger rose to his feet, the meat packed away in his hunting sac and hoisting the gigantic pelt over his shoulder with a grunt.

"I guess I'll be off, then," the hunter announced. "May I ask you don't tell you friends at your village I was here. But if you must, give Oiá:ner my apologies. Thanks again." He meant to turn, but suddenly paused. "Oh, one more thing. A token of my gratitude."

He tossed something to Ratonhnhaké:ton, the teenager expertly catching it in hands in reflex. He opened his fingers to reveal a glistening, white fang of the bear, almost the size of the boy's palm. The hunter stared at it with a perplexed gaze, fascinated by the texture and the fact he held a piece of a sacred beast. But he shook himself out of and glanced back up.

"No, this is yours," he insisted.

Immediately the stranger waved a denial. "Keep it. Looks better with you, anyway."

Ratonhnhaké:ton just stared, blinking and mouth agape. The trespasser was oblivious as he turned away to disappear into the forest, shifting the bear pelt on his shoulder. Suddenly the native's mouth moved before he could stop it.

"Wait!"

The stranger paused.

"What is your name?"

"…Shay Cormac."


	3. Part I: Something to Remember

**As I'm sure several of you have guessed, I made a slight change in the timeline when Connor's village was attacked. In this fanfiction, Washington's raid occurred AFTER the French and Indian War, almost a year after Selah's return from the Caribbean to be precise. Rest assured, this will cause no major changes. If anything, it will add little more drama. I hope you guys enjoy!**

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton cautiously made his way back to the village, his limbs still shaky and legs wobbly, most likely shaken from his close encounter with the bear and the coatman. …Or the persistent rumbling of his stomach.

Ratonhnhaké:ton made a irritable 'sh' as another stubborn growl came from his belly. He swore if the entire village didn't hear him coming, the animals were certainly laughing at him. The boy sighed. It had been a very long and harsh winter, the ice sheets coming early and the snow lingering weeks into spring. The consequences were that there was less game in the forest and their few crops grew poorly. This was causing more hungry bellies and sickness this season. Meanwhile Ratonhnhaké:ton had a strong suspicion the nearing coatmen hunting with their own firesticks certainly didn't help. He should ha—

Immediately the teenager shook his head. What was done was done. He had a chance to kill a white man and he turned it down of his own free will. He knew regretting it now would be futile. However because of his nap and his encounter, Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't catch as much as he wanted. So far when he hunted with Kanen'tó:kon, they had only caught less than a handful of hares and a couple small deer. That would only feed half the village. Maybe the other warriors had better fortune and could feed the other half. Still, Oiá:ner would be wondering why their catch would be short.

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked. Wait. Oiá:ner. Shay Cormac had mentioned her. How? He couldn't know the Clan Mother, could he? The native stood in confusion for a moment before forcing himself to continue on, thankfully recovering in time to see a familiar figure.

" _Ratonhnhaké:ton!"_ Kanen'tó:kon called, running up to his friend. Ratonhnhaké:ton paused, allowing the fellow teenager to come up to him. The boy's brow was soaked with sweat and he was winded, but he was still able to speak in their mother tongue. " _I… I was so scared! You saved my life! Thank you!"_ Suddenly Kanen'tó:kon's expression gratitude turned into confusion. " _How did you get rid of the bear?"_

Immediately Ratonhnhaké:ton frowned. He knew he had no reason to refrain from Kanen'tó:kon, but how could he describe the encounter? He found a white man with a strange accent who hunted like a native and used wrist-blades and silent firesticks that caused great beasts to sleep? The native's friend would think he was touched in the head. However the prospect of lying left an unsettling feeling in Ratonhnhaké:ton's stomach, so he smiled humbly and changed the subject.

" _We should go back,"_ the hunter decided. " _Hopefully the others will understand why our bounty is thin."_

Suddenly Kanen'tó:kon's face lit up. " _But it's not!"_

Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes widened to an unnatural length as his friend pulled out the arm he was holding behind his back. With just a single hand, he held several carcasses of large, fat hares. Those would certainly feed several more bellies. Ratonhnhaké:ton stuttered in surprise, causing Kanen'tó:kon's grin to widen. Finally the older hunter's tongue moved.

" _H-how?"_ he only managed.

Now it was Kanen'tó:kon who was smiling humbly. " _I had a good teacher."_

Ratonhnhaké:ton grinned along with him, giving his best friend a pat on the shoulder in congratulations.

* * *

The sun was dying when the pair of hunters returned to the village, sinking into the glowing lake and lighting the sky with an inferno of bright shades. Ratonhnhaké:ton allowed himself to relax within the defending walls of the village, which had been rebuilt since the attack. The settlement they guarded was filled with life. Despite the lack of food or troubles of the past, children played and laughed, songs were sang, the women did their work and the men sorted their meat, and small fires burned with a pleasant smell.

The two friends went their separate ways when Kanen'tó:kon left to add their contribution with the other warriors. Ratonhnhaké:ton paused in the center of the village, absorbing the solace it offered from his troubled thoughts. Suddenly his hunting instincts identified a gaze following him, causing him to turn around. Immediately he spotted Oiá:ner watching him with her wise gaze from the shadows of her great longhouse.

The Clan Mother was old—oldest one in the village, in fact—with dull gray hair in fine braids and her bronze skin interrupted by sagging wrinkles. She was several inches shorter than him, her back hunched over as she gripped her walking staff with both hands. The woman wore fine embroidered clothing which made Ratonhnhaké:ton's deerskin clothing look like rags. Oiá:ner waved her arm, gesturing the boy to come. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not hesitate to obey.

While the outside radiated with life, the inside of the longhouse was warm with a scent of burning incense. Canoes rested on the rafters above while piles of wood and bedding lay on the floor. In the center of the longhouse burned a single fire, not a single ember touching the wood around it. Ratonhnhaké:ton settled next to it, crossing his legs, while Oiá:ner added more wood to the flames, summoning a minor combustion. She shakily and slowly settled into the same position as him across from the boy.

" _How faired your hunt?"_ she asked calmly.

" _Well,"_ Ratonhnhaké:ton answered obediently. " _The game was not as large, but we caught enough."_

Oiá:ner nodded, either in understanding or brushing off his statement. Suddenly the boy's mouth felt dry. Should he tell her? The teenager knew that the elder knew of the colonists, even speaking with their leaders several times, so his story may not seem as absurd. After all, she was the Clan Mother. As well as his grandmother.

" _Oiá:ner,"_ Ratonhnhaké:ton started slowly. " _I met a white man in the forest within our valley. He was tracking a bear, who had wandered into our hunting grounds. That's why the game has been so short."_

Oiá:ner tilted her head curiously. " _A white man?"_

" _I considered killing him in fear for our village. But the Great Mother seemed to favor him."_

Oiá:ner's gaze shifted from curiousness to inscrutable. Ratonhnhaké:ton knew she was contemplating on his words. The boy had made it clear of his mistrust of the foreigners ever since his mother's death. She had practically died in his arms. An eight-year-old. Such things are not easily forgotten.

However, his life was scratched from the moment he was born. It was why he was named as such. Birthed from the loins of a disgraced daughter and a foreign man. In some sense, he was not meant to be. But here he was. The Clan Mother would accept his existence, but that did not mean she would not ignore his bastard origins.

Oiá:ner sighed. " _I know you wonder why it is we do not wander from these woods. Why it is we do not join the other Kanien'kehá:ka in war. Tonight, you will have your answers."_

The old woman paused as she stoked the fire with her own staff. The flames in response stirred, more ambers and smoke filling the air. Ratonhnhaké:ton calmly blinked the nuisance away. He listened as Oiá:ner went on.

" _Our village sits on sacred ground. It is our duty above all other things to keep it hidden from the world."_

However her listener only narrowed his eyes. He would never show disrespect to the Clan Mother, but he could not hold his tongue. " _Even if it mean allowing our enemies to gain strength?"_

Instead of being offended, Oiá:ner only nodded. What for, Ratonhnhaké:ton wasn't sure. " _It's is a difficult position for us."_ The woman held up her hands and looked between them, like what she would do when deciding what herbs to use. " _We are caught between the need to act—and the knowledge that so endangers us."_

With that, the Clan Mother picked up her walking staff, burying it into the ground for leverage to stand. She practically had to climb to her feet. She turned away, but Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't contain his curiosity.

" _What is so important that you would see us imprisoned by ourselves?"_ he demanded.

From his angle, the teenager watched as his grandmother hobbled to a shelf, bending over with surprising flexibility to reach under it. She pulled out a wooden box, pale and rough with age. Iakoiá:ner placed her staff on the ground so she could lift the lid, reaching inside. Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to peer at the object, but couldn't see it until the elder turned back around, cradling it.

The native widened his eyes. It was a perfect sphere, but it was transparent and completely smooth, save for lines disrupting the surface. The hunter noticed a soft glow coming from the object, but he wasn't sure if it was the fire or the object itself. By the time Iakoiá:ner made her way to her grandson, his mouth was agape.

" _What is this?"_

He accepted it as the Clan Mother placed it in his hands. Immediately the strange sphere began to glow brighter, radiating with light like a second sun. Ratonhnhaké:ton's eyes went wider. It still felt cold! The young native would regret staring directly at in awe.

Without warning, the sphere flashed brighter, nearly blinding the teenager. He let out a yell of pain and shut his eyes. However when he opened them, his confusion grew. Light pulsed across the walls of the longhouse with strange lines dancing through the air. And the hunter noticed something else. Oiá:ner was gone.

" _Oiá:ner?"_

In response, a figure appeared before him, but it was not his grandmother. Ratonhnhaké:ton could not believe his eyes. The figure was distinctly female, with long pitch-black hair that cascaded across her shoulders. She wore a long, pale dress and a piece of cloth draped her back from her head. Her eyes were gold, but deeper than anything Ratonhnhaké:ton had ever seen. Her skin was paler than her dress, lips tugged in a contemplating frown.

"Greetings, Guardian," she said.

Her voice was strange. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere at once. And although Ratonhnhaké:ton knew he heard it clearly, it seemed to echo within his mind. The young native stared in awe, more so than the glowing sphere.

"Are you… a Spirit?" the teenager gasped. She had to be, with how she glowed…

"You may think of me as such," the Spirit said simply, tilting her head.

"Where am I?"

"You are where you were before. If you mean to ask what it is you know see, it is known as the Nexus. From here, probabilities are calculated so that the proper path may be chosen."

Ratonhnhaké:ton failed to understand. "What path?"

Finally the Spirit's lips turned into a smile. "Yours."

The world disappeared.

* * *

 _Wind roared in Ratonhnhaké:ton's ears. Bright shades swirled around him and clouds raced below him at a dizzying speed. The young boy meant to let out a startled yell, but instead a high-pitched call came out. An eagle's cry._

 _In a mixture of horror and fascination, Ratonhnhaké:ton realized his arms had been replaced with wings. His legs were now talons and a pelt of feathers now covered him. The wind did not swirl around him but carried him, his wings gliding over it. The native opened his jaw—which he now realized was a beak—and let out another cry. He was an eagle._

 _Suddenly a bright light appeared across his vision. A second eagle, this one much larger than him and was completely gold instead of his muddy brown feathers. The Spirit?_

" _What have you done to me?" Ratonhnhaké:ton cried._

" _I have a selected a form familiar to your culture," the Spirit explained, her echoing voice still calm and smooth. "It's designed to ease navigation." She flapped ahead. "Follow me."_

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton realized he had no choice, flapping his great wings to keep pace. He was surprised he still had his thoughts, but his movements felt completely natural, like he had been born an eagle and not a human. Suddenly the Spirit dived into the cloud cover. The native folded his wings to his side, following. The wind was deafening and the world raced by in streaks. When he opened his wings to level out, he saw he was now in a forest covered in a blanket of snow, like in the heart of winter._

" _We have waited a millennia for your arrival," the Spirit told him. " You—who will bring to him the last piece. That he may open the door."_

" _I don't understand," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied._

" _Nor need you. You are important, child. In more ways than you will ever know. Yours is a special lineage. Many are connected to you. Many who have changed the world. Who_ will _change the world. So too shall you."_

 _The eagle could only follow, although his confusion still filled his mind. They flew through the forest, weaving through the trees effortlessly. Suddenly the winter wonderland was replaced by an image, ripping Ratonhnhaké:ton's breath away. It was an image of a ring of colonists, though their features were vague. However there was one that stood in the center, towering above the others. He burned with familiarly in Ratonhnhaké:ton's soul. Why?_

" _As we speak, forces gather in secret," the Spirit went on, "preparing to seize control of the land. If they succeed, the Sanctuary will be breached."_

 _The image changed to the white men charging towards what seemed like a giant, glowing door. It almost looked like the entrance to the Sky World. The familiar figure was in the lead of the raid, raising his gleaming sword in the air. The sight sent shivers down Ratonhnhaké:ton's spine. The visions disappeared and suddenly the eagle felt the winter's cold._

" _I have called you here that you might know your duty," the Spirit proclaimed. "You must protect the Sanctuary from those who would undo our work."_

 _Suddenly the wintery forest vanished, replaced by a great tree filling the entire sky. Its roots took up the entire ground, creating a twisted forest. Ratonhnhaké:ton followed the Spirit through the brambles. The native had to weave and turn more violently to avoid the obstacles, but it still felt effortless._

 _Without warning another set of images returned. In these, Ratonhnhaké:ton saw the corpses of his people strewn across the ground, covered in blood and soot. The coatmen stood over them, sneering maniacally as they howled in celebration and flames burned around them. Despite the eagle felt confident and untouchable only a moment ago, the native now felt dread and sickness in his stomach. Fear coursed through his veins. The same fear he felt when his mother had died._

" _Maintaining your current course will result in a negative outcome. Premature access will destabilize the region. Your village and its people will be destroyed."_

 _Suddenly the Spirit dived into a crevice, leading to the heart of the Earth. Ratonhnhaké:ton followed. However the roots crisscrossed the cavern, glowing like they were burning. It felt hot. The same heat the native felt before. His heart hardened._

" _What am I to do?" he asked._

" _You must seek this symbol," the Spirit instructed._

 _It flashed across Ratonhnhaké:ton's vision like the other images. However, this time it seemed to burn into his mind and soul. His blood felt ablaze._

" _And there is a girl," the Spirit continued. "You must find her."_

" _What girl? Who is she?"_

 _Suddenly the brambles disappeared and the cavern was replaced by endless charred ground. The sky was blood red. Another image appeared, this one clearer than the others. It was a young woman, her pale, fair skin making her an obvious colonist. However, her long, flowing hair was dark like the night and her eyes almost the same shade. Ratonhnhaké:ton saw something in those eyes. An unspeakable pain and a secret hatred at the unfairness of the world. The native knew that look. He saw it every time he saw his reflection._

" _But be warned, for she has been turned. She is now branded by the mark." The image changed to show a fiery cross on the girl's skin. "You must ensure she alone has the Key. She will be the one to give it to him. However, there would be those who will try to stop your path."_

 _The image and the world darkened. A dark silhouette filled his vision. Red lined its coat like streams of blood, included one across its left eye which almost appeared as a scar. Ratonhnhaké:ton shivered as he peered at dark silhouette. The other images had filled with him emotion that melted into him, but this one, just felt_ sinister. _Evil did not exist in his culture, but now he knew why it existed in the white men's. Who,_ what _could be such?_

 _The images disappeared and Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked to see a brilliant light glowing before him._

" _No doubt you have many questions," the Spirit commented. "Time will see them answered. For now, you must follow. Leading is for later. Find the girl. Take the key. Now go!"_

 _The light turned into the symbol. It swallowed the eagle with a final cry._


	4. Part I: A Boorish Man

_Ratonhnhaké:ton giggled mischievously. No one will find him here. His clothing blended with the shrubbery around him, camouflaging him perfectly. He stayed low to the ground, blending into the shadows as best he could. He even took measures to find a hiding spot as far as possible, so it would be even harder to find him. He giggled. What if his hiding place was so good he_ couldn't _be found? He imagined the entire village looking for him, clueless as ever. How funny it would be!_

 _He had gone out to the forest with his friends to play, under the instructions not to venture out of the valley. They had decided to play hide-and-seek, their favorite game. Now it was Ratonhnhaké:ton's turn to hide and his friends to search for him. But it was not his playmates who found him._

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton heard the crunch of leaves too late. Suddenly strong hands gripped his arms, ripping him from his hiding place. He was slammed onto the ground with a cry. Then the boy saw the shadows and presence of figures circling him. As quickly as he could, he twisted around, jumping to his feet._

 _Only to stare at a firestick, an inch from his face._

" _What do we have here?"_

 _It took the boy several moments to translate the English words. They sounded strange, nothing like his people's language or how he imagined them when he read their words. Like the trapped, terrified animal he was, he whipped his head around, trying to look everywhere at once. Strange white men surrounded him. They all had a strange scent and their strange voices cackled in terrifying laughs._

 _Instinct kicked in. Ratonhnhaké:ton's body snapped upright and he took off from the man with the firestick. Only to ram into a solid, unmoving figure. The native wailed as he was caught in a vice grip, much more painful than before. Somehow in his panicked mind, some sort of intelligence came through._

" _L-let me go!" he cried in English._

" _Listen to that! He knows English!" a deep voice laughed._

" _Smart for a savage," another rumbled._

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton felt the ground leave his feet, creating another surge of panic. The constricting grip on his ribs did not help. He flailed madly, hissing and growling, clawing at his captor. He had the foulest stench of all. Suddenly the native felt the warmth of skin, followed by something wet._

 _There was a grunt of pain. "Spirited, too!"_

 _The air was ripped out of Ratonhnhaké:ton's small lungs as he was slammed against a tree. He immediately froze when he saw his captor. His dark eyes met eyes that were the color of ice in winter. His hair was the color of a dying raven's feathers, even the fur on his lip. He wore a wicked sneer, revealing yellow, crooked teeth._

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton gasped as hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing harder and harder and harder. It wasn't very long at all before no air came to him. The man seemed oblivious to his desperate state as he mocked him. As he mocked his people. As he mocked their existence._

" _I could snap your neck you know," the man had sneered, watching as Ratonhnhaké:ton struggled for breath. "A little more pressure and—POP!—the sad little flame of your life extinguished. You are a nothing. A speck of dust—you and all your ilk. Living in the dirt like animals, oblivious to the true ways of the world. You should throw yourselves to our feet and beg mercy."_

 _By then Ratonhnhaké:ton the world was dimming with the man's words sounded like distant garble. But he still must had defiance lingering in his fear-filled eyes._

" _But you it seems," the man drawled. "No… you cling desperately to your ways. Too ignorant to know your folly. But I am not unkind…"_

 _The man had released Ratonhnhaké:ton then, causing the young boy to gasp and cough desperately for air. Dark spots danced across his vision and the world was muted. Somehow he made out the man's next words._

" _And so I spare you. So that you may carry word to your people. Let them know the sooner we are given what we seek, the sooner you can return to your pathetic, empty lives. A fair trade, is it not?"_

 _The coatman said it all too casually. By now air was returning to Ratonhnhaké:ton's lungs, making him choke uncontrollably. He was quivering. What had he done wrong? He stayed within the valley, just like he had been told. He never met a white man and he never insulted one. Why were they doing this to him? What did he do_ wrong _?_

 _Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a couple more pathetic hacks before enough air returned to him. He managed in raspy voice, "W-what… is your name?"_

 _The white man cocked an eyebrow. He then gave a twisted smile, but decided to humor the boy, chuckling._

" _Charles Lee," he answered. "Why do you ask?"_

" _So I can find you."_

 _The man, Charles Lee, blinked, but that smile didn't fade. He straightened and exchanged glances with his fellow coatmen, laughing. He looked back to Ratonhnhaké:ton._

" _I look forward to it."_

 _Lee began to turn then, waving a dismissive hand. Or that's what Ratonhnhaké:ton thought it was. He was wrong. Still disoriented, he failed to see the butt of a firestick slamming into his skull. By the time he awoke, the forest was filled with smoke and fearful animals._

 _His village was burning._

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton snapped his eyes open with a gasp. A burning, bright light filled his vision, making his heart leap in panic. No, his home! It—

Oh.

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked to adjust his eyes to the brightness of the morning sun. It shone brilliantly through the canopy, its rays washing over the leaves and casting shadows on the ground, mimicking a forest fire. Now his dreams played with his vision.

The young boy sighed as he wrapped his arms around his legs, sorrow creating a shadow over his eyes. His trembling was near gone now and his clothing was almost dry, but it did not matter. He always did this. Whenever he woke from his dream, he would remember that day, every detail so vivid that it felt like it happened a moment ago. Sometimes he would awake believing it was still happening.

Ratonhnhaké:ton shook his head. Now was not the time to wallow in self-pity. As always, he pushed the dream to the back of his mind, the edge of being forgotten. But still remembered. He climbed out of the burrow dug under the dead remains of a fallen tree, possibly an old home for some animal. The native pulled out his belongings, which were only his leather bag, his bow and arrows, and the bedroll his grandmother offered him. These things along with the clothes on his back were the only items Ratonhnhaké:ton had. Already homesickness was striking him like a dagger to his stomach.

It had been two days since he set out from Kanatahséton, and he doubted his journey was near its end. For as long as he could remember, Ratonhnhaké:ton always wondered what it would be like to step out of the valley and into the world beyond. But instead of feeling a rush of excitement and a sense of adventure like he was always imagined, he only felt solemn realization press against his chest like a solid boulder. He did not _choose_ to leave his home. It was an _obligation._ If he did not save the village, no one will, and the Spirit's prophecy would ring true.

Instantly the hunter's mind drifted back to the vision he was shown. He plucked a nearby stick and mindlessly drew the symbol that was seared into his soul. It was two curved lines, adjoining into a sharp point at the top and ending at two curved ones at the bottom. The center was an empty abyss. It looked like an entrance to a cave. And Ratonhnhaké:ton knew he was destined to step into it.

Oiá:ner told him the trails he must follow to get the stone village. She had been there before, where she met the man who bore that symbol. The same man that had safeguarded his people when white men threatened their land. However, the thought made him wonder. If that was true, where was he six summers ago, when they needed him the most? Oiá:ner would not say.

It gave Ratonhnhaké:ton even more conviction. He had so many questions. If there was a way to answer, then he would take it.

His decision made, the native moved on.

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton walked along a broad, dirt-laced road, a wall of foliage on either side of him. Ruts from the wheels of wagons cut through the dry earth, signaling the road was used frequently. It made Ratonhnhaké:ton's gut wrench.

Kanatahséton was only a few days journey away, and that was only at a slow pace. The boy knew the colonists were close, but not _that_ close.

"GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

The teenager jumped at the harsh yell. His first instinct was to freeze, only to hear the thundering of hooves. Coming closer.

His flight response kicked in. Ratonhnhaké:ton lunged out of the way. He rolled across the ground just as he heard the hooves where he had just stood, accompanied by a nicker. The native turned around only for his pitch-black eyes to lock with earthen brown ones.

Time seemed to slow down. The coat of the chestnut mare was shiny with sweat and she heavily breathed through her nostrils. On her back was a colonist. He wore black trousers that were swallowed by white, tall socks that came to his knees. His crimson waistcoat was secured with a belt, a pale coat wrapping around his body. A leather hat was settled on his head, somehow not blown away by the high speeds.

But most noticeable of all that his skin was _dark_. It was far darker than even Ratonhnhaké:ton 's, like the mud of the lake after a storm. The native never saw a man like that. He thought all the coatmen were only pale. But the teenager couldn't think about it long, with those eyes glaring at him. They were sharp and cold, like the tip of an arrow, but Ratonhnhaké:ton saw something else. Something he could not name.

Time returned. The colonist's mare sped by, the wind even rustling Ratonhnhaké:ton's bangs. The native heard another yell, snapping his head to see two more coatmen in ragged clothes and their horses the same condition as the first. The men didn't even notice the baffled traveler.

The group disappeared over the rise ahead, the sound of their horses and their yells quickly fading. Ratonhnhaké:ton was alone once again with the songful silence of the forest. What just happened?

* * *

The rest of Ratonhnhaké:ton's journey passed uneventful, save for a pair of quarreling men he passed. Seeing they were unhelpful, he continued on. The forest of the valley felt alien, nothing like the comforting, guarding forest of his home. Instead, he felt like a trespasser in another tribe's land, except this land belonged to no one. Only Mother Nature ruled this forest, and he could feel her eyes on him as the trees whispered at him, as if questioning his presence.

Then he saw it.

Red stone. The boy could tell immediately it was not a natural formation. The red stone jutted from the forest in a perfect vertical, perfectly straight and smooth. He never saw any structure like that before. Furthermore, he didn't see any of the same color earth surrounding him. Ratonhnhaké:ton moved closer to get a closer view. He gasped.

The house was _huge_. It was easily two times larger than his village's longhouses, towering over the forest as it rested peacefully on a rise. The stone, which originally looked bright, was faded and dark, like rust. Dark, stained windows were like ominous alcoves cutting into the walls. The roof was made of dozens of tiles, darker than the stone but lighter than the glass. It looked like the tiles could fall off like a snake's shedding skin. Ratonhnhaké:ton knew this house was old, but it made it no less intimidating. The descriptions of colonist living did no justice.

The traveler had to pause to take it in. There was no doubt that this was the house Oiá:ner described. A great house of red stone on a hill, overlooking the forest like a vigil guardian. A new wave of conviction to course through him. No turning back now. Ratonhnhaké:ton trudged up the trail that lead to the front of the house.

As he neared, he noticed a second building, half as large as the first. Somehow it looked even more lifeless. The native looked away and focused on the front porch. Two white stone pillars held up the balcony over the dark, wooden door. A broad staircase led to it, stretching from the road all the way to the house. Ratonhnhaké:ton was about to take the first step when he heard a noise.

Reflex kicked in, having him start and reach for his stone tomahawk. He only paused when his brain translated the sound as a horse's whinny. It was then the breeze blew, bringing the strong scent of manure. The boy wrinkled his nose in disgust but peered over to the source. Beside the great house was smaller, two wooden structures. They were open to the elements, only a wooden gate keeping in the great beasts inside. Stables.

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed. He blamed days on the road for his jumpiness. Assured he most likely saw everything that made up the manor, he finally ascended the staircase to the door. He swallowed and steeled his nerves. This was it. This was why he left his village. This is what he came to do. His journey had not ended. It was only beginning.

The native knocked on the door. Silence. Ratonhnhaké:ton waited a full minute. Nothing. He pounded on the wood again, harsher. Same result. It was logical to assume that the house was vacant. Ratonhnhaké:ton knew better. There was someone here. He was sure of it. He lifted his fist to knock once again, only for the wood to disappear. In its place was the coatman from the woods.

He glared at Ratonhnhaké:ton with those piercing eyes, even though he was a head shorter. The tall teenager had to look down to see him. The man was hunched over, leaving heavily on a walking stick, looking like his legs could barely hold him up. He held to door open only halfway, as if braced to close it at a moment's notice.

"What do you want?" the old man snapped. It was old and hoarse, but had a sting to it like a whip.

This was not what Ratonhnhaké:ton was expecting. Taken aback, he fumbled for English, only for the words to feel awkward on his tongue.

"Um… I-I was told you could… train me…" he stammered. He immediately regretted his choice of words.

"No."

The door slammed shut in Ratonhnhaké:ton's face. The native blinked. What? For several moments he just stood in confusion, trying to digest what just happened. When it finally sunk in, the boy narrowed his eyes and pounded his fist against the door.

"Go away!" the old man's muffled voice came.

"I am not leaving!" Ratonhnhaké:ton retorted.

He had not come all this way to be refused so easily. If this was his only chance to save his village… if this really was his destiny… wouldn't let some boorish man get in the way of that. Only a few more knocks and the native realized the old man wasn't coming back.

 _Maybe there's another way inside_ , he pondered.

If the man wasn't going to speak with him, Ratonhnhaké:ton would _make_ him listen. That in mind, the teenager jogged around the building to find an identical door in the back. He took the handle and jiggled, only for it to stay in place. Locked. The native growled before pounding once again.

"Please! All I ask for is a moment of your time," he begged.

Finally he heard a noise, but it didn't come from the door. Instead it came from above him. Ratonhnhaké:ton looked up to see the old man leaning half his body out a window. And instead of seeing that strange gaze from before, the native only saw annoyance in the man's eyes.

"I apologize if I have been unclear, or otherwise confused you with my words," he drawled, voice filled with false politeness. "It was never my intention to mislead. So let me try to clarify: GET THE _HELL_ OFF MY LAND!"

With that, the man disappeared and closed the window with a slam. Ratonhnhaké:ton rolled his eyes. The old colonist was stubborn, he would give him that. But the teenager was, too. He came here to be trained. The boy eyed the building, trying to get idea. He could try to climb through a window, but if the man was keen on leaning out of them, he doubted it would end well. Besides, Ratonhnhaké:ton wanted to talk to him civilly, not hostile, as it surely would end up. Not that the conversation so far had been civil…

The native blinked when he saw another balcony on the side of the house. Well, it wasn't breaking in. And it would be convenient to be on the same level as the boorish man.

"I'm coming up!"

He jogged over to the balcony, not hesitating to scale up the skinny, round pillar. He was on the second floor in seconds. The balcony was broad but bare, save for the lone door leading inside. Ratonhnhaké:ton tried the handle again, this time more desperate. It wouldn't budge.

"Just hear me out! What are you so afraid of?" he demanded.

Why was the man refusing him in this way? If had the capability to train him, why was he so reluctant not to do so? The answer to Ratonhnhaké:ton's question was immediate.

Suddenly the handle disappeared from his fingers and the door swung inward. In its place was the old man, eyes blazing.

" _Afraid_?" he echoed. He advanced on Ratonhnhaké:ton. Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped back. "You think I'm afraid of _anything,_ least of all, a self-important little scab like _you_?!"

Without warning, the man's cane shot out, striking towards the native's legs. Unable to react, the boy could only cry as his feet were pulled out from under him and he slammed onto his back. He tried to get back up, only for something to press against his throat. He looked up to see the old man above him, eyes like an angered cougar. Ratonhnhaké:ton held up his hands in a sign of peace, but it made no difference.

"Oh, you might dream of being a hero," the coatman hissed. "Of riding to rescues, of saving the world—but stay this course, the only thing you gonna be is _dead_."

The strange look had returned. And now Ratonhnhaké:ton saw what it was. Anger. Hatred. Shame. But it didn't seem to target the world, like Ratonhnhaké:ton, but at _himself_. The old man tapped his cane against the boy's jugular before stepping off and putting the walking stick back in place. While Ratonhnhaké:ton scrambled to his feet, the old man stumbled back to the safety of his home. But before he did though, he looked over his shoulder, eyes now cold.

"The world's moved on, boy," he said, almost mournful. "Best you do, too."

He disappeared and slammed the door. Instead of seeing the manor, Ratonhnhaké:ton saw flames. His burning mother. His clanmates dead. His world destroyed. What was it for, then? Why did his mother die only to be forgotten? Only for it happen again?! Rage filled his veins.

"I will not leave!" he roared. "Do you hear me?!" Ratonhnhaké:ton would not let his mother's death be in vain. Just because the old man had given up on the world, didn't mean he did. "Just you wait, old man."

An echoing rumble interrupted him. The teenager looked to the sky to see dark clouds rolling over the sun, blocking out its light. He needed shelter. Fast. Another thunder growled, provoking a nervous whinny from a horse. The sound gave Ratonhnhaké:ton an idea. The stables should do.

The boy jumped off the balcony and fled to the structure. Thankfully there was a stall left open, a layer of soft hay covering the floor. Not seeing any surprises within the straw, Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled his bedroll from his sac and sprawled it across the ground. None too soon, either, as the boy heard the first sheets of rain fall on the mud outside. There was a flash of light, provoking an angry clap of thunder. The native ignored the sound as he settled onto his makeshift bed.

The moment he laid down, fatigue from the day's events seeped into his muscles and a fog formed inside his mind. He eyelids were already heavy. However, the boy stared at the manor, which was unmoving and lifeless, hiding its master from the outside world. Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed, wondering what tomorrow would bring. He closed his eyes, letting sleep claim him.


	5. Part I: Tempest

Ratonhnhaké:ton heard voices. He snapped his eyes open and sat up, trying to find the source. He was greeted with pitch-darkness, until suddenly it was illuminated with white light. The storm was still raging. The flimsy walls of the stables shuddered as a growl of the thunder lingered. Near-horizontal rain fell in sheets outside, illuminated by a second flash of lightning. There was a steady, rapid drumbeat as the water crashed onto the roof.

Still, the tempest couldn't drown out the mumbles of a low conversation, accompanied by slow creaking sounds of footsteps. The warrior narrowed his eyes and instinctively gripped his tomahawk. Keeping his movements silent, he moved to the open doorway to see two men. Both were swallowed whole by oversized coats with gear strapped to their bodies. Ratonhnhaké:ton remembered them. They were the same ones that pursued the old man.

"He's a square toes," one muttered, "this'll be easy."

"That's what you said the last time," the other man retorted, pointing an accusing finger, "and I wound up with a dead 'orse and a dark eye!"

Ratonhnhaké:ton interrupted their argument. "Who are you?"

Both coatmen whirled around at his voice, not noticing his presence. Instead of being threatened by the native's raised weapon and cold gaze, the first man only sneered.

"No one you should concern yourself with, little breeches," he said. He and his partner advanced on the teenager, but Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't move. "Best cut 'fore something bad 'appens."

The native's eyes narrowed more as his instincts sharpened. "No."

The coatmen blinked before exchanging glances. One shrugged while the other shook his head with a snort. Both raised their fists, hunger gleaming in their eyes.

"Can't say we didn't warn ya," one of the men smirked.

Ratonhnhaké:ton's muscles tensed, like a cougar prepared to pounce. The white men struck first. One swung his arm in a right hook, aiming towards the boy's head. Little did the thug know the boy had been trained to hunt and fight all his life.

With supreme reflexes, Ratonhnhaké:ton dodged his blow and struck out with his tomahawk. The stone blade found the side of the man's neck, provoking a scream. The hunter pushed past him, only to see the second advancing, a sword in hand. The teenager twisted and planted a strong kick to the thug's stomach, forcing him to double over. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't hesitate. He swung his tomahawk, burying the weapon in the man's skull.

He was dead before he hit the ground. However, the young warrior failed to notice the first one was still alive.

"Brothers!" the dying man roared over the storm.

Immediately several shadows appeared from the mist. The bandits circled around Ratonhnhaké:ton, carrying metal that glowed under the lighting's flashes. They ignored their fallen comrades, instead focused on their prey. The teenager welcomed them, pouncing on the closest one.

The white man struck out his bayonet, but Ratonhnhaké:ton jumped away. He wasn't fast enough, though, as the metal blade sliced his side. The boy cried and the thug grinned. He repositioned his hold on the musket to hold it over his head, thrusting it down on the teenager with a yell. Using instinct, Ratonhnhaké:ton rolled away from the attack, landing behind the man. As quickly as he could, he buried the tomahawk in the man's leg. He crippled with a scream, allowing Ratonhnhaké:ton to jump to his feet.

The warrior sliced his weapon into the bandit's throat. The corpse fell to the mud with a wet thud. The other brigands watched the event appalled, only for Ratonhnhaké:ton to feel anger radiating off of them.

The Mohawk warrior ignored them as he swiped his tomahawk at another thug. However the man blocked the attack with his musket. The wood snapped with a _crack_ , but he remained unharmed. Ratonhnhaké:ton curled his lip in a snarl, only to see a flash in his peripheral vision. He let out a cry as there was a sharp pain as something sliced across his cheek.

He looked over to see a bandit laughing at his success. The coatman stabbed his sword again, but Ratonhnhaké:ton quickly whacked it aside with his tomahawk. However, before he could charge, the man regained control of his sword and sliced it again, forcing the teenager back.

"Songs and spirits won't save ya now, boy!" he mocked.

The boy's blood froze when he slammed into the wood of the stables. The man gave a maniacal grin and thrust out his sword, but Ratonhnhaké:ton was faster.

At the last moment, the teenager jumped out of the way, just as the blade buried where he once stood. The thug gave a roar of rage and tugged on his sword, only for the weapon to refuse to budge. Ratonhnhaké:ton took advantage of the opportunity to strike his tomahawk into the man's skull.

Another thug had advanced on him in hopes to catch him off guard, but the warrior would not fall for the same trick twice. He ripped his stone dagger from his belt. He dodged the bayonet and stabbed his blade into the bandit's neck. The coatman fell with a gurgle sound of death. By now there was only one left. He gave a vicious, furious sneer.

"You just made things so much worse for yourself, boy," the bandit snarled.

He raised his musket and pointed it at the boy's chest. Ratonhnhaké:ton immediately knew his intentions. The native dived to the ground, just as an artificial thunder filled the air with its own flash of lightning. The teenager felt the musket ball whizz by his ear. Even though he was deafened by the blast, he still heard the man's swear as he realized he had missed. But Ratonhnhaké:ton wouldn't. He jumped to his feet and charged.

Panic flashed across the man's eyes. He quickly ripped a pistol from his belt, aiming it towards the boy. Ratonhnhaké:ton continued his charge, not stopping even as another blast filled the air. The warrior dodged to the side slightly, but still hissed as the ball grazed his arm. It didn't matter.

The Mohawk was upon his opponent, leaping into the air with his tomahawk raised over his head. The brigand tried to stumble back, but the sloshy ground gave him no leverage. Ratonhnhaké:ton slammed into him, burying his blade into the man's chest. They crashed onto the ground, the tall teenager on top of the adult. The man immediately began coughing up blood, but was somehow still alive.

"Who are you?" Ratonhnhaké:ton demanded. "Why are you here?"

Suddenly the dying man grinned, his teeth bloody as he choked on the liquid. "Best ask the bossman."

Then the native heard a muffled footstep behind him. He turned his head to see a blur of movement before pain exploded in his skull. Ratonhnhaké:ton was ripped from the corpse and fell onto his back, head pounding. He opened his eyes, only to see a tall, burly man standing over him. Unlike the others, he wore no sleeves, revealing soaked and bulging skin. His ugly face was contorted in a snarl, pressing his club against Ratonhnhaké:ton's throat, much more painfully than the old man the day before.

"You workin' for the old man, then? That it?" the beast demanded in his slurred accent.

Instead of allowing Ratonhnhaké:ton to respond, he pressed harder, cutting off the boy's air supply. The native choked and already dots were swimming across his vision. An instinct told him to fight back, but his head spun, not even able to form a full sentence. Somehow through his darkening vision, he saw in the corner of his eye, another bandit lingering behind his "boss."

A clap of thunder sounded, just as a black hand covered the coatman's mouth. The man fell, a new figure in his place. …What? Was he imagining this—a hallucination conjured by lack of air? But it was no hallucination.

Suddenly the ugly man's eyes bulged out of his skull and a gurgling gasp escaped his lips. Without warning, he fell to the ground, dead. In his place was the old man, a bloody knife in his hand. His dark eyes were stone. Ratonhnhaké:ton gulped and slid backward as the old man took a dangerous step towards him.

Then the old man extended his hand.

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked and looked up, searching. His expression was inscrutable. The boy sighed. If he came this far. The Mohawk accepted the hand and the old man heaved him to his feet. …He was stronger than he looked.

"Th-thank you," Ratonhnhaké:ton panted.

The old man said nothing, instead sauntering away. Then suddenly he hissed over his shoulder, "Clean this up."

Ratonhnhaké:ton gulped. Not precisely what he was expecting to hear. But, this man did save his life, and this _was_ his property. The teenager supposed it was right to follow his order. He nodded and bent down to grab the lifeless corpse of the "boss."

Then suddenly the old man paused and looked over his shoulder. He locked eyes with Ratonhnhaké:ton, for the second time after he had pinned the boy. "Then… I suppose we should talk."

Not waiting for a reply, the coatman limped back to his manor as the storm raged overhead, leaving Ratonhnhaké:ton to the gruesome work of disposing the aftermath of his fight.

* * *

It was hours before Ratonhnhaké:ton completed the task, and the storm continued relentlessly the entire time. The teenager dragged the bodies away from the manor, but unable to start a funeral fire or dig a massive grave, he was forced to dump them into the river, one by one. The current should carry them away, where the fish or scavengers should take care of the corpses. He was unable to clean the blood from the sight, the liquid mixing too much with the rainwater to create red pools. Ratonhnhaké:ton instead cleansed himself of the substance, rubbing hard on his deerskin clothes and washing his skin over and over. He still felt the stickiness.

His mind was blank during the process, his sanity replacing his ghastly actions with the concept of a simple chore. Now that Ratonhnhaké:ton was alone, realization of what he done was seeping into his bones. He had _killed_. He had not meant to—his body had acted on its own, as if possessed. Not by some foreign spirit, but a hidden instinct _inside_ of him. Tonight it had finally awakened. The boy knew it should not be surprising.

His tribe were warriors. They were _born_ to fight. Even the white men seemed painfully aware of this, as they trembled whenever they spoke with the elder warriors. Iakoiá:ner had told him his day would soon come as well, when he would be expected to kill any man in order to defend his tribe. Yes, that's all it was. He had come to save his people. He knew the journey would be unforgiving, and that he accepted to complete it at any cost. Even if it meant taking a life.

Ratonhnhaké:ton trudged back to the manor, the mud ruining his just-washed moccasins. At least the tempest finally subsided. _Slightly._

The teenager made it to the front door from the day before. Lifeless as it was then. This time Ratonhnhaké:ton hesitated, all too clearly remembering the last time he tried to open it. He sighed. Now wasn't the time for doubt. Snatching his courage before it ran away from him, the boy took the doorknob and turned it. The door let out a long creak as he opened it slowly.

His imagination turned the shadows of the home into the figure of the old man, waiting patiently to scream at the top of his hoarse lungs and beat him back out with his walking stick. Instead of the humiliating scenario, he was greeted with silence.

A long hallway was stretched out before him, ending at an opposite doorway, most likely the back door he tried to use the day before. An explicitly decorated rug lined most of the floor, ending at a staircase that took up half of the hallway. A staircase made up half of it, leading to a higher level. Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced at it, only to realize in horror that several of the railings were missing, along with a couple others that were skewed. It was the same for another railing ahead of him. To his left was the open doorway to a room. He peeked inside to see a large table, stacks of _thick_ books making up its surface. The edgy boy's skin crawled when he noticed a lifeless head of a deer on the wall behind it, glazed black eyes staring at him. Thankfully he was allowed to escape as the old man's voice came.

"Over here."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked to his right to see another room. This one only had a handful of furniture, but for some reason it was all covered with white sheets, making it look like the room was occupied by phantoms. A fire blazed in a crevice in the wall, filling the air with heat and dancing shadows. The old man was sitting on a chair, head bowed as he leaned over his walking stick.

Swallowing, Ratonhnhaké:ton neared. In the corner of his eye, he saw another room with another table, this one covered with remnants of food with utensils hanging on the walls. The kitchen, he believed it was called? He looked around, trying to observe everything at once. So this was a colonist dwelling. It was nothing like his people's! However, the newcomer knew something was amiss.

Only a handful of candles were lit, having the home filled with darkness. It was deathly quiet, even though the storm still beat against the walls of the manor. The air was musky, stale, unmoving. Ratonhnhaké:ton gulped. This place felt like death.

The old man didn't even respond to Ratonhnhaké:ton's approach. Seeing a chair across from the coatman, the native opted to sit on it. Only for the seat to shatter apart.

Ratonhnhaké:ton collapsed on the floor with a yelp. Only took him a second to realize what happened. He leaped to his feet and gazed at the remnants of the chair in horror. Was he really that heavy?! His cheeks burned red.

"S-sorry!" he stammered.

He looked over the old man, expecting his cold eyes to be burning with fury. Instead, he was surprised to find the colonist's eyes gleaming with amusement, lips tugged in a small smile. He waved a dismissive hand.

"Not your fault," he replied. "This whole place is ready to come down. Goddamn miracle it hasn't already." Without warning, the amused expression disappeared and he fixed the boy with a stern gaze. "Anyway, who are you?"

"My name is Ratonhnhaké:ton," the teenager answered.

"…Right. Well, I'm not even going to try to pronounce that. Now tell me why you're here."

Ratonhnhaké:ton told him. Everything. He showed him the map drawn by Iakoiá:ner with the strange symbol. He told about his vision and what would become of the future if he failed his journey. He even dared to mention his tribe, how they lived in peace in Mohawk valley, but that peace was shadowed by the advancing colonists. It was already threatened once, when the invaders ravaged his village and killed his mother.

Not once did the old man interrupt, listening silently with that inscrutable gaze. It only broke a couple times, when Ratonhnhaké:ton mentioned the destruction of his home and how he was attacked as a child by Charles Lee. Other than that, he was like a statue, not even acting surprised when the native told him about the Spirit.

"These 'spirits' of yours have been harassing the Assassins for centuries. Ever since Ezio uncorked the bottle… Ah—but you don't even know what an Assassin is, do you?" When Ratonhnhaké:ton just stared at him blankly, the old man gave an amused snort. "Well, best settle in, then. I've got a story to tell and it's gonna take a while to get it all out."

Immediately the native snatched a nearby chair. Making sure this one was actually sturdy, he put in the place of the old one and seated himself in the shadow of the fire. He listened intently, as the old man told him the entire history of the secret war. The War between Assassins and Templars.

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a small yelp as his toe stumble across a loose floorboard. He immediately corrected his balance and tried to remain composed, even though his skin was hot. That was the second time he did that, _after_ he broke the man's chair. For someone who wanted to learn the ways of the Assassins, he was showing a poor impression.

However, the old man, who had introduced himself as Achilles, didn't even look back. He continued to wobble along.

"Careful," he warned. "Wasn't a joke when I said this place was coming apart."

"Why don't you repair it?"

"What's the point? Besides, I don't have the materials for the job."

"So buy them."

Achilles gave a humorless laugh. "Look at me! You think I can just march into some store, purse full of pounds, and go shopping?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't understand. That's how colonists did things, right? "Yes. Why not?"

Achilles sighed and shook his head. "So naïve…"

The native blinked, confused what he could've said wrong. He was more so when they paused by the doorway to the kitchen, behind the staircase. Before he could ask, Achilles raised his walking stick to wrap around the arm that held up an unlit candle. He pulled, moving the arm. Suddenly a _click_ came from the wall and a dark crevice appeared. Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked in surprise. A door?

"This way," Achilles rumbled, pushing the secret entrance open and slipping inside. His guest followed him.

The entrance led to another wood staircase, leading _underneath_ the manor. This room was mustier than above, a heavy scent of dust filled the air. And it was significantly colder. Not enough to make one shiver, but enough to notice the stark difference in temperature. There were only a couple candles lit, not near enough to fight the darkness of the room. Cold, lifeless stone walls stood in the shadows, joining with the floor of the same material. It was the center of the room that caught Ratonhnhaké:ton's attention.

It was a coat, wrapped around a dummy in the middle of a miniature fighting ring. Even in the gloom, Ratonhnhaké:ton could tell it was once a pristine white, but was now an ivory shade from age and grime. Sky-blue touches lined its edge. It looked big enough to fit the built warriors of his tribe, or at the least a large colonist. The Mohawk moved closer to inspect it. He found the bundled fabric of a hood on its back. He grazed his fingers to feel tough fibers of cotton, but it was smooth at the same time.

The boy glanced down to see a dark, wooden box. Curious, he bent down to observe. His fingers just touched the lid when Achilles's stick appeared, whacking his hands. Ratonhnhaké:ton yelped and shot back up.

"Don't think you can just come in here, throw those on and call yourself an Assassin," the old man chided.

"I, I did not—" Ratonhnhaké:ton stumbled, caught off guard. "I would never presume…"

Another dismissive wave. "It's alright. I know they've a certain… allure." The teenager glanced at the outfit. He could agree with that. He was quiet as Achilles continued. "I shall train you in the ways of the Assassins. Then we'll know if you're right to those robes."

Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't believe his ears. He spun around to face Achilles, mouth dropped. The old Assassin only smirked. It took a moment for the boy to find his words.

"Th-thank you!" he exclaimed.

The smirk widened and Achilles limped towards the side of the room. As he walked away, Ratonhnhaké:ton was finally able to observe his stride. His right leg seemed lame, like he couldn't bend it correctly at the knee. The boy wondered what could have possibly happened. Achilles made it to a desk pushed against the wall. He looked over his shoulder at the boy and waved.

"Come on, then," he ordered. "We've work to do."

The old man jabbed a sheet of wood leaning against the wall with his stick, signaling he wanted it removed. Ratonhnhaké:ton obeyed by plucking it off the desk's surface. He didn't expect to see what was behind it.

Pictures. And he immediately recognized several of them. The same men that attack him as a young boy all those summers ago. Ratonhnhaké:ton glanced at a certain one, only to be greeted with eyes the same color of a frigid glacier.

Charles Lee. The man's words echoed in his mind.

" _You are a speck of dust. A nothing. You and all your kind. Living in the dirt like animals. Oblivious to the true ways of the world."_

The Mohawk's heart clenched in anger. So it was the Templars. It was the Templars that attacked his village. But why? What could they possibly gain from such destruction? He turned to Achilles.

"What do the Templars want?" he asked.

"What they've always wanted: control," Achilles answered, as if it was obvious. "They see an opportunity in the Colonies. A chance for new beginnings, unfettered by the chaos of the past. This is why they back the British. Here they have a chance to illustrate the merits of their beliefs. A people in service to the principles of order and structure."

Ratonhnhaké:ton remembered the Spirit's prophecy. "I have seen what is to come if they succeed. They have to die, don't they? All of them."

Then he saw it. A portrait of a man above the others. He wore a stormy-blue coat and a tricorne hat of the same shade sat on his head. Dark brown hair was pulled back in a crimson ribbon, exposing his pale, flawless face. Even in the portrait, Ratonhnhaké:ton saw it. The man's face looked exactly like his own whenever he looked into a pool's reflection. And then he saw the name.

" _Mother, why don't you talk about_ raké:ni _?"_

 _Ziio shook her head. "Because he lives in another world than ours. He does not even know of you, child."_

" _Why?"_

" _It is for the better."_

" _But Ista! I want to know! What is my father like? What is his name?"_

 _Ziio was silent for several moments. "His name is Haytham."_

Haytham. Haytham Kenway. The man in the portrait. His father was a Templar. Ratonhnhaké:ton's fingers closed to a fist.

"Even my father…" he whispered.

Achilles followed his gaze to the portrait. "Especially your father. He's the one holding the whole thing together."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked from the painting to him. "Tell me of him."

Suddenly the old Assassin's eyes narrowed. His voice was filled with venom. "Your father… what's to explain. He and the other Templars hunted us down to the _last_ man."

"Are there any Assassins in the Colonies besides us?"

Achilles barked a laugh. " _Us_? Listen to you. There are _no_ Assassins anymore, boy. I am an old man beaten and resigned. You've an upstart on dreams of glory, but lack the skills and experience. The Templars rule this Continent."

Ratonhnhaké:ton looked back to his father. "But he spared you. Why?"

Achilles squeezed his eyes shut and furrowed his eyebrows. Then he shuddered, so slightly Ratonhnhaké:ton thought he imagined it. "Only because another was there to stop him."

Immediately the teenager was intrigued. "Who?"

Achilles shook his head. "I am not one to open old wounds. Come, let us speak of other things."


	6. Part I: Crossed

**Many of you that are rereading Fallen Eagle probably have noticed that I haven't made much changes with the chapters so far. Connor's intro I am relatively pleased with, as the storyline itself was fine, but there were numerous typos that I felt needed to be corrected. However, beginning here will be more drastic changes.**

* * *

All was dark and still. Nothing stirred in the warehouse. Piles of wooden crates filled majority of the open space, stacked into towering pillars. Despite the fact that the storehouse had been occupied that day, a fine layer of dust covered the floor with cobwebs sticking to the corners of the rotting wood. The moon shone through an open skylight, pouring pale light into the shadows.

A lone man stood sentry over the supplies. He wore dirty clothing, coming just from his family's fields, but he wasn't too concerned. Instead, he focused on the dark corners of the storehouse, gripping his rifle tightly. Or at least, he _tried_ to.

The young man stifled what seemed like the hundredth yawn that night. He expected more excitement when he volunteered for this duty, but the truth was that it was dull. Not to mention the hour far more late than his liking. At least he wasn't suffering alone.

The idea made the sentry blink. His partner should have been back from his rounds by now. Where was he? The man hissed into the darkness.

"Oi, Humphry, where are ya?"

No reply. The man waited. Nothing. The farmer's stomach churned. Humphry should have been back by now. He swallowed and took a step forward. He raised his musket from his side and locked it onto his shoulder, his bayonet slicing the darkness.

"Humphry?" he called.

A creak from above was his answer. He had no time to look up. The shadow fell upon him before he could. The soldier gurgled as something sharp was buried in his throat. He twitched once before he went still.

Selah wrenched out the blade the moment her victim went limp. She rose from her kill as she flicked her wrist, sheathing her hidden blade.

"Hehe, still as deadly as ever, ain't ya, little girl?" a thick-accented voice snickered from the darkness.

"I'm not a _little girl_ anymore, Hickey," Selah retorted, glaring at his direction as the mercenary stepped out of the darkness.

"Wot ever you say, darlin'," the senior Templar snickered.

Thomas Hickey was shorter than most men, but slightly more built after years of service as a soldier. Under his bicorn hat, Selah knew he had muddy brown hair, cut short to his scalp. His dull brown eyes were the same color, even though they were always gleaming with mischief. He wore tattered clothing, including mud-cloaked boots that reached his knees, swallowing the white stained paints and a faded coat wrapped around his fraying blue waistcoat.

"Let's just get this job done quickly," another voice hissed.

Selah automatically bristled at the second figure that stepped into the room. It was British soldier, completely with the lobster-red coat wrapping around their body and pristine white trousers. Even a black bicorn hat was placed on their head. Men were the _only_ ones who could wear such uniforms, but this was no man. It was a woman. She was the same age and height as Selah, but her bushy hair (which she didn't bother putting in a queue) was a reddish-brown. Her black eyes were sharp, piercing. Those daggers stabbed into Selah with disdain, but the Templar ignored them. She had gotten used to them and Eleanor Mallow wouldn't risk her father or the Grand Master chewing her bones.

Tension between them lit up like a match to gunpowder, Selah speaking in a flat voice.

"Of course."

The woman quickly spun on her heels and neared a nearby crate. She flicked her wrist once, ejected a sharp blade from her clothing. She stabbed her hidden black beneath the lid, wiggling it a bit to gain leverage. The top popped off in a moment. The Templar observed its contents.

Rifles. Several of them, cocooned in a bed of hay. Considering they were in a frontier settlement, at first glance it was not surprising. People living in the countryside depended on the weaponry to safeguard their homes or to hunt for extra food. The warrior even remembered seeing many of them during her time in the frontier. But Selah knew better.

She recognized these models. She had seen them almost everyday for the past six years. Only the military were allowed these muskets, armed with deadly bayonets and loaded with gunpowder. No, these weapons weren't supposed to be here. They were _stolen._

She heard Hickey whistle behind her. "If only…" he sighed.

Selah shot a glare at him. "These weapons don't belong to us, Hickey. Those civilians had no right to take them."

She heard Eleanor scoff behind her. "What are a few rebels going to do? All they can do is yap their petty sentiment against the Crown. It won't be long until they're hanged."

"And what if their words have merit, Eleanor? Do you really think King George listens to his people? For centuries, he has been forsaking us, and now he suddenly brings attention to us, only to bear punishment. What justice is that?"

Eleanor merely cocked an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Oh, so why did you volunteer for this mission, then? If you agree so much with some peasants?"

Selah spun around to confront the woman, eyes burning. "Why you do think they stole the weapons in the first place? The rebels will use them to spread bloodshed across the streets. Innocent people will die."

"Such a pity."

The woman's monotone voice sent fury through Selah's veins. She took a challenging step forward, but was interrupted when Hickey barged between them.

"Now, now, ladies," he scolded, "you're both pretty."

Eleanor huffed and spun around on her heel, Selah glaring after her before looking away. It seems their rivalry hadn't simmered over the years. The woman knew Eleanor likely agreed with her (or she hoped so), but the redcoat would take any chance to repay the humiliation Selah casted upon her all those years ago. When the young apprentice defeated the skilled soldier at her own challenge at combat, right in front of her father and the Grand Master. The memory still brought a smirk to her lips.

Selah wiped it away to go on with business. "Come, we'll take these back to Fort Hill. I trust you can handle the delivery, Hickey?"

The Cockney man grinned. "Of course, m'lady."

The Templar turned to walk away and begin the long process of collecting everything, but something caught her eye. She glanced down at the man she had killed in order to move around him, only to see a white sleeve poking out from underneath his coat. Curious, Selah bent down to touch the odd color, only to feel the rough texture of parchment.

The woman tilted her head and shifted her weight as she pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was wrinkled and stained, telling the man had possession of it for a while. Selah opened it and skimmed the contents.

Her heart beat faster with each line.

Quickly, she folded it back up and stuffed it in her pocket.

* * *

Selah's body was heavy by the time she made it behind the walls of Fort George. The military sector hadn't changed much from the first time she had set foot here. Forbidding stone walls encased the maze of buildings, which held both the army and the Colonial Rite. The Grand Master went through pains to ensure the Templars had strong ties with the military, to allow access to the latest news and easy control over the populace. So Fort George was a natural home for the unique Order.

Selah passed the threshold of the gate that led to the heart of the fort, where several grand buildings that made up the Templars' headquarters. She gave a nod of greeting to the guards posted outside before ducking inside. The walls of the corridor were cold and lifeless, but the woman didn't pay any mind. Especially as she had to concentrate to put one foot in front of another all the while keeping her eyes open.

Finally she made it to a door. She knocked.

"Come in," a rich, formal voice invited. Selah didn't hesitate.

The room was lit with a single candle, the shadows dancing as the little flame flickered. Making up half of a room was a bed, decorated with a simple thin sheet and slightly thicker cover. Unusually humble for its owner. On the other side of the room was a desk where the candle lay upon. The light showed the desktop covered with parchments, each with their own purpose. A man hunched them.

Haytham Kenway, Grand Master of the Colonial Rite.

He had abandoned his cobalt coat and tricorn hat, leaving him only in his tawny undershirt with a blood-red waistcoat over it. Even in the darkness, Selah could see the paleness of his skin from lack of sunlight and the crow's feet growing from his eyes. However, other than that, he didn't have a single wrinkle from age. What gave it away was his graying hair. The once dark mane had grown silver, with only streaks of its original color. It still had its long length of reaching his shoulders, having him tie it in a queue with a crimson ribbon.

"Haytham," Selah greeted.

The man immediately turned around. His dark stone eyes, which were dull with tiredness, suddenly gleamed. He replied, his voice as thick as ever with his London accent.

"Ah, Selah. I trust your mission was a success?"

"Only if Hickey is truly on his way to Fort Hill and not to a courtesan."

Haytham chuckled at that. "Hickey may be unorthodox, but he is loyal and more importantly, he can complete the task at hand."

"I know. He'll especially get it done with Eleanor bickering in his ear."

Haytham's amused smile showed teeth. Before Selah could stop herself, the woman let out an exhausted yawn.

"Someone sounds tired," he commented.

"My apologies, I haven't had much sleep lately," Selah excused, cheeks slightly reddened from showing ill-manners.

"No need to excuse yourself. You have been working quite hard lately."

"So have you."

Haytham glanced at his desk, filled with documents detailing his order. He shrugged. "The Order does not rest, I'm afraid. One must keep pace if they are to lead it properly."

It sounded like he was giving her a piece of advice, but Selah knew better. The Colonial Rite was promised to Charles Lee, not her. Just thinking of the name unsettled her stomach. The Templar bowed her head.

"I'll be off, then," she hummed.

Just the thought of trudging to the opposite side of the fort to her quarters filled her with dread and made her limbs heavy. She was so _tired_. Her eyelids fluttered. Haytham noticed.

"You can stay in here, if you like," he offered. Selah immediately opened her mouth to refuse, but the Grand Master cut her off. "I insist. I have much work to do, so I won't retire for some time. Your work is done. Rest."

Selah's manners told her no, but her foggy mind and heavy body won. Her head fell into a nod and she shuffled towards the bed. She barely registered Haytham rising behind her. The Templar tried to pull the sheets back, only to unceremoniously fall onto the mattress. Thankfully Haytham took the sheets for her. Selah's eyes closed the minute she placed her head on the pillow, her body stilling. She vaguely felt Haytham place the sheets over her, providing a comfortable cocoon. Her consciousness was slipping away as she felt warm lips on her temple.

"Sleep well, my dear."

* * *

The sun shone brilliantly overhead, not a cloud in the sky. Seagulls squawked in glee as they rode the ocean winds, keeping an eye for abandoned food. Selah trotted down to the docks, excitement filling her veins. It took her no time to spot the red-hued sails and the wolf-headed bow. The _Morrigan_ had returned. Selah laughed.

"Shay!"

"'Ey there, darlin'!"

The young woman slammed into his chest, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. The senior Templar returned the gesture, planting his hands on her back. Shay Cormac chuckled, making his chest vibrate. Selah's smile brightened and she pulled back.

The sailor wore his Templar uniform, the black coat faded from years of use. Although his hair was dull with streaks of gray from age, his mane still gleamed under the bright sunlight. His tanned skin showed the beginnings of wrinkles, but the Master Templar could still be described as handsome.

"How was your trip?" she asked.

"It was well," he replied. "Haytham's not working you too hard?"

"I can manage."

Shay chuckled again. With the Rite broader than ever, the Templars had countless members serving the Order. Haytham even told her once they had more men than they needed. It was why many were offered spare time, even Master Templars. With the Assassins long gone and the colonies at peace, Shay's services weren't needed and he was allowed to go on hunting trips to the frontier. Meanwhile, since Selah's latest mission was a success, she had the next several days to herself.

Shay reached into his coat. "I got you something."

Selah perked up with interest, curious of what he had. The hunter pulled out a cord of a necklace, a broad, dark claw the larger than her finger attached to it. A bear claw. Selah was never one for hunting, but the token was magnificent nonetheless.

"Incredible," she breathed. She cautiously took it from his grip and placed it in her palm, memorized. It was cool against her skin and seemed sharper than her sword. The beast it once belonged to…

"Thought you might like it," Shay grinned. He nodded in approval when Selah slipped it over her head. "Looks good."

Selah smiled humbly, only to hear a familiar voice behind her.

"Ah, Master Cormac, a pleasure to see your return," Haytham greeted.

Shay snapped to attention like a soldier meeting his commander. "Good to be back."

"I hope this expedition wasn't as eventful as your one to Paris?"

The Templar smirked. "Not if you count a couple bears and a cougar."

Haytham's lips twitched into a smirk. Leave it to Shay to find his way into trouble. If his hunting trip was that eventful, Selah was curious about what had happened in France, when he went overseas to complete a "personal mission." To this day, the Irishman didn't tell her of his adventures in the foreign country.

Haytham opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.

"Master Kenway!"

The trio turned around to see a familiar figure standing on the edge of the docks. He was just as tall as Haytham and at first glance, appeared to be as built, but Selah knew it was just his heavy brown coat. The man's coal-black hair was mangy and dull, pulled back in a makeshift queue. Some of his hairs failed to stay in the tie, having strands splay across his brow, making an untrimmed look. The mustache on his lip looked even more so. His pale blue eyes gleamed as always.

Selah's stomach churned. Charles Lee, Haytham's lieutenant of the Order. She and the senior Templar got along more poorly than she and Eleanor. He had been Haytham's protégé before Selah, and disliked the fact that she was his new apprentice. It would be quite easy for the Grand Master to suddenly change his mind and take away all the man's dreams of ruling the Colonies, all for an orphaned little girl. Lee had every reason to hate her. And it wasn't only that.

Unlike the others, he never forgot her former allegiance.

Even though Selah bristled whenever he was near, today she felt her skin crawling. Lee's arrogant sneer was wider than usual and his eyes sparkled maniacally. He was up to something. And Selah did not like it.

However, as usual, she was the only one to notice this. Haytham regarded him as friendly as ever.

"Yes, Charles?" the Templar replied.

"You might want to see this, Sir," Lee purred, his British accent gravelly from age.

"May I ask what it is regarding?"

Lee's grin turned devilish. "We captured an Assassin, Sir."

* * *

Two Templar mercenaries brought the prisoner into the courtyard, the gates closing behind them. The man's hands were bound tightly behind his back, but that did little to restrain him. He flailed madly, kicking out his legs and pushing against his captors. The duo were forced to half-drag, half-carry him across the ground all the while trying to avoid his strikes.

The prisoner didn't look like an "Assassin." He wore all leather clothing, including tall dark brown boots that swallowed his black trousers. His coat wrapped around his torso, but it was in poor condition. Several tears shredded the material, stained by blood that had escaped the cuts. Several buttons were undone, making the coat barely bound.

Underneath his pitch-black bangs were black eyes, sharp and calculating, even though they were burning with rage and wildness. His face was angular with his disheveled hair falling in front of his eyes. Selah couldn't help but blink at his skin tone. The man had the palest skin she had ever seen.

Without his hat and mask, it was hard for the woman to recognize him. It wasn't until his eyes reminded her of the deepest shadows of the night that she remembered him. The Assassins of the Brotherhood called him Joe. The Templars called him the Night Stalker.

Selah obediently flanked Haytham as they approached the prisoner, Shay on his other side and Lee trailing behind them. When they noticed their Grand Master, the Templars tried to force Joe to his feet. When the Assassin only snarled in protest like a savage animal, one of the footmen snapped.

"Shut yer trap!"

The Templar immediately regretted his words. In a blink of an eye, the Night Stalker twisted and headbutted the man. The mercenary cried at his head was thrown back, blood pouring from his jagged nose.

"That is enough!" Haytham snapped, his voice full of authority.

Somehow his command worked. Joe stopped flailing and slumped to the ground. He snapped his gaze towards the voice, his eyes narrowing to slits the moment they landed on the Brit.

"Grand Master Kenway. To what do I owe the displeasure." The man's voice was deep, but slightly hoarse, most likely from lack of use.

"I was simply curious as to the identity of the infamous 'Night Stalker of Boston,'" Haytham replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. "And why that particular someone would discard the hood of the Assassin… for a simple hat."

Selah choked a laugh. Joe glared.

"Would you stick around if it was your house that was on fire?" he snapped.

Haytham shrugged at the retort. "Fair point. But that doesn't explain your continued activities. Tell me, what did all those men do to deserve their ends?"

Selah listened to the conversation, suddenly remembering what Haytham meant. There had been a string of murders in Boston in recent months, enough for the local soldiers and a Templar cell to investigate. However, the investigators looked into it only to scratch their heads. Every murder was a clean cut to the throat with no evidence of the killer. Like the murderer vanished in thin air. Another strangeness was that the murders only happened at night.

The incidents occurred enough for soldiers to declare a serial killer. They were alert when darkness fell, even issuing a curfew. Even though they believed it was for the populace's best interest, it only did more harm than good. Colonists protested against the restriction, upset by the martial law they had been put under when before there was no such thing. Instead of tracking down the killer, the soldiers had been making more arrests of civilians breaking curfew, and the murders didn't cease. Only growing more resentment…

Joe glared at accusation, but didn't protest. A chuckle came from Shay.

"Joe has always been a one plank short of a fence," the man chuckled.

The ex-Assassin only snorted at that. "Whatever they say about me, it's probably true. Why not just run with that and leave me alone. Haven't you heard? I'm a monster. Driven by greed and bloodlust. That's all anyone really wants these days anyway, isn't it?"

Selah frowned at that. So even he heard about the anti-Crown misgivings spreading across the colonies. She couldn't help but gulp. They already fought one war in the colonies, and it was over. They didn't need another.

However, Haytham only contemplated his words with mild interest. "You must believe that quite strongly, to have killed so many innocent men."

Selah hardened. The Assassin's Creed spoke that an Assassin must never harm a civilian. All the victims were male citizens. Deserter or not, the Night Stalker broke the Creed. However, the rogue only sneered.

"What thug is deluded enough to think that beating a woman somehow makes him more of a man?" he demanded. "Worse he gets away with it 'cause his mates swear he was with them when his miss 'took a nasty fall.' The fellow does not deserve to see his next birthday."

Haytham frowned thoughtfully at that. "I cannot say I disagree with you. But I digress. Tell me, are there more of you?" When Joe only stared, the Templar sighed and elaborated. "Are there other survivors of Achilles's brotherhood?"

Selah flinched at the mention of the name, but remained silent. Joe, meanwhile, shrugged. "I dunno. Yes. No. Maybe. I stay to myself. If there are survivors, I don't know any of them."

"Would you be interested in helping us find any?" Selah blinked and shot a wide gaze at him. Did he really propose that?

"Make no mistake. I may have no intention to stop you, but I don't indeed of helping you, either."

"I take that as a no, then?"

Joe only glared in confirmation. His beady eyes were like tips of blades piercing into one's soul. They seemed the embodiment of darkness and sin. Selah shivered. She wondered how many men looked into those terrible eyes in their final moment. But of course, Haytham was unaffected.

He looked down in thought, humming with his arms locked behind his back. After several long moments, he looked back to the men holding the prisoner.

"Take him to a holding cell. Make sure he is guarded." When the men nodded and began dragging the murderer away (who resumed his desperate thrashing), the man turned to Selah. "Selah, come see me in my study within the hour."

The woman blinked, taken aback. "Of course, Sir." She wasn't the only one to blink.

"Do you want me to come along, Master Kenway?" Lee begged.

"No, I prefer Selah for this."

The Grand Master walked away, leaving Selah to feel the devil's glare boring into her.

"What do you plan to do with him?" Selah demanded.

Haytham sighed, rubbing his temples. "I don't know…" He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. "The fact he is—rather w _as_ —an Assassin makes it terribly tempting to execute him, not to mention he hasn't abandoned his radical ways."

"Those men abused their wives," Selah immediately spoke up. "They got what they deserved."

The senior Templar glanced up at her. They both knew who she was thinking of. Quincent. The most rotten wench ever to walk the Earth. He would spend any money his wife, a seamstress, managed to acquire on hefty amounts of liquor. Only to return three sheets to the wind and beat his wife in a drunken fit. And when Selah tried to put a stop to his crimes, he shifted his abuse to her.

If Haytham hadn't found her that night… Selah shivered.

He saved her life. For a second time.

The woman swallowed. There was no law preventing males to disrespect their spouses in such a way, but that did not mean it had to be tolerated. Those men were not innocent. Joe had been serving justice, in his own, strange way. The woman sighed and she folded her arms.

"It is curious, though, why he bothers with domestic violence when he could be rebuilding the brotherhood," she mused. "It doesn't seem he abandoned the Creed. Not completely, anyway."

Haytham shrugged. "Even if he did have a desire to, he lacks administrative skills required to do so effectively. And besides, I suspect that he's more a follower than a leader, anyway. As for why he chooses such victims, I did come across an interesting tale of him. It is told that his father was one such of these men."

Naturally Selah became curious. "What happened to him?"

"No one knows. But if I had to assume…"

The woman's stomach knotted. Now she remembered the rumors she heard. They were only rumors, as no one in the colonies knew the Night Stalker personally. Joe wasn't even his real name. It was a title that came from when one of his victims screamed the name before his death. That was one rumor. Another was why he always shielded his face was to hide his scars. Inflicted by his own demon of a father. His first kill.

Selah looked down. She felt Haytham's analyzing gaze boring into her. "It is irrelevant. I am curious of what is your say on the matter."

The Templar glanced up. "Mine?"

"You are now a Templar of my Order. You may not be a Master or a part of my Inner Sanctum, but your opinion is as valuable as theirs. After all, you are also a survivor of the Colonial Purge. You and Joe shared the same Brotherhood."

Selah swallowed. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Her days as an Assassin.

When she had been an orphan on the streets, abandoned by her mother, the Assassins took her in, gave her a meaning in life. _He_ took her in. Only for it all it been torn away on a single night. The flames that ate away her home and everything she loved.

Only for the arsonist to be seated before her.

But Selah felt no hate.

She couldn't, even if she wanted to. She sighed, feeling Haytham's prying gaze. He wanted an answer.

"Let him go," the Templar decided. "He is of no threat to us. If anything, he has improved things in Boston. Besides raising an alert of a serial killer, of course."

Haytham still looked skeptical. "And if he gets bored? What if the deaths of drunkards don't suffice? I don't like making decisions I will regret."

"Then make a deal with him. We will leave him in peace, as long as he vows not to interfere with Templar affairs. He is to only act against the injustice of these men. If he fails to uphold this, then threaten his life."

A slow, satisfied smile pulled Haytham's lips. "You have become a fine Templar, Selah."

* * *

 **The scene with Joe was provided by Avenger09, even most of the lines. I was originally was going to put it in Crossed Eagle, but didn't have a place for it so I put it here. I thought it was the perfect scene to reflect Selah's change into a committed Templar.**


	7. Part I: The Boston Massacre

Haytham drummed his fingers on the wood of his desk. Candles were lit across the room, reflecting off the walls with gentle light. However, night had fallen, with the windows concealed by curtains, allowing shadows to invade, hugging in the corners of the room. Particularly a corner that stored a bookshelf of volumes. Since Haytham never had time to read any of them, he left that section abandoned. Unfortunately, that also included a statue of a knight in 12th century armor. Make that, a Templar knight.

A "gift" from his former mentor, Reginald Birch. So the memory of the man continued to haunt him from the shadows. And apparently anyone else that walked into his office at night.

However, Haytham didn't care—or perhaps tonight, found its presence convenient—as he glared at the man before him. The lowly Templar had obviously come straight from the frontier. His clothes were in tatters and stained with grime, his boots tracking mud over the Grandmaster's expensive rug (if there was a God, Haytham prayed to give him patience). Even his face wasn't pleasing to look at, with a swollen black eye and scratches on his face, the dried blood and dirt mixing together on his unshaven beard. The stench radiating off the man was another story altogether.

"So," Haytham drawled, "let me clarify all this. I gave you one job. Prevent Achilles Davenport from getting off his rotting shit pile of a manor. Instead, you and your lot chase him all over the frontier—all the while ransacking half of Massachusetts—and then you try to vandalize his home when there is nothing left to vandalize."

The mercenary flinched as the Grandmaster put emphasis on his last words, very clearly giving the message of his distaste. Naturally the bandit tried to excuse himself.

"We-we thought the place was unguarded," he stammered, "and that a raid would show 'im a good lesson. Like who's boss, ya know?"

Haytham narrowed his eyes and his voice dropped to a cold hiss. "No, I don't know. We never agreed to advance on Davenport. I'm already wasting enough money hiring you to watch him—and now I not only can I not trust your agreement to follow a contract, but your capability as well."

The man blinked. "I beg ya pardon, sir?"

"So you're telling me, that an entire band of trained soldiers can't hold their own against a lame Negro?"

The Templar mercenary's eyes widened when he caught on to what Haytham was suggesting. "N-no! It wasn't him! We were ambushed!"

"By what? A rabbit?"

"What? Uh, no! Course not!"

The man continued to fumble for words. Haytham's eyes were now slits, impatient. "Then what?"

"A native jumped us! Took out over 'alf my crew!"

"Natives? So band of them?"

"No, just one! No older than any of my mates."

Haytham wanted to slap his hand on his face. "My apologies, then, you were not attacked by a cripple. You were not attacked by a rabbit. But a single boy who happened to jump out of the forest and decided to massacre your entire group."

The mercenary's head bobbled in a nod. "Yes! We think the old man must have hired 'im."

Haytham rolled his eyes. Why would Achilles waste what little money he had on a bodyguard when there was nothing to protect? The Grandmaster read every report that came from the Davenport Manor. He was well aware of the property's deterioration. Achilles Davenport was crippled—both in body and heart. He was of no threat to the Templar Order. Haytham only sent mercenaries to remind the old man of his failures and success of the Templars. How there would be consequences if the Assassins were to ever rise again.

This mercenary was either delusional—or a very poor liar. Most likely the latter. Probably some accident befell his group and he was desperately trying to displace the blame. The Grandmaster sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"I believe that will be all," the man growled. "Your services are no longer needed. You may go."

The mercenary's eyes widened in disbelief. "I'm tellin' the truth! I swear!"

"If that is the case, then I will see it for myself. You are dismissed."

Haytham's cold gaze told there would be no further discussion. The mercenary's mouth clicked close and his body slumped in defeat. Without another word, he trudged out of the room—tracking more dirt across the floor—and exited the study. The second the door closed, Haytham let out a loud, exhausted groan. He rubbed his eyes and leaned on his desk, as if to collapse on it. Before he could, a knock came from the very door that was just closed. It took all of the man's manpower not to hiss in rage.

Instead, he called, "Come in."

The what-was-supposed-to-be-closed door opened, revealing Charles Lee. At least it was someone much more appealing to see. The Master Templar glanced at the muddy footprints on Haytham's favorite rug before looking back up, eyebrows raised. The Grandmaster waved his hand and leaned back in his chair.

"Issues with our killers for hire?" Lee mused amusedly as he took the chair across from Haytham.

The higher Templar snorted. "If incompetence is considered as an issue anymore." Lee gave a chuckle, pitying his overworked superior. Haytham ignored it as he glanced down, back at the document he had been reviewing before he was interrupted by the insubordinate mercenary. Even though it was the tenth time he had read that letter, he still felt rage filling his veins.

"You told me Wolcott was taken care of," the Grandmaster hissed dangerously. Charles frowned, knowing immediately what he was talking about.

"I shot him myself," the Master Templar insisted. Haytham snapped, slapping a hand on his desk.

"Then _who_ is sending letters to men targeting _our_ property?!"

Even Charles Lee flinched at the outburst. Haytham never lost his composure. _Never_. Unless he was told there was a traitor on the loose. The Brit looked down at the letter again, although he had seen it so many times now, he no longer had to read its contents to know what it said:

 _Consider this my last contribution to your cause. Continuation of our exploits will attract unwanted attention, perhaps from my former employers, a risk I cannot take. So I will end with a final note of advice to your organization. If you wish to take action against Parliament, do so quickly. Or all of our work will be ruined._

 _Signed,_

 _V. Wolcott_

Haytham's grip of the paper tightened, so much the piece of parchment crumbled. His tone was slow, deadly. "Find him, and have him killed."

Charles nodded obediently, but caution lingered in his eyes. If it was one thing Haytham did not tolerate: it was insubordination. If failed to be done, the Grandmaster had no qualms doing it himself-and punishing the individual who failed in the first place. And this time that individual was Lee.

"It will be done at once, sir," the Master Templar hummed timidly, bowing his head. However, the man didn't leave. "But I am afraid this is another… complication that must be addressed."

Finally Haytham looked up from his desk "And what would that be, Charles?"

"I've come in with a report from Major Pitcairn. There seems to be complications in Boston."

Haytham raised an eyebrow. "The Nightstalker?"

Lee's face darkened. "Worse."

* * *

Months passed. The hot summer cooled into autumn. Earthen colors were then replaced by white blankets of snow, brought in by days of unforgiving blizzards. Temperatures dropped enough to bite at the skin—no matter how protected one was. Animals that once filled the forest fled to the shelter of their dens, turning the land silent and lifeless. However, the still realm couldn't be seen for long, as the days became shorter. The darkness of night shrouded over the land early, lingering into the late hours of the morning. And if the sun did rise, it would rarely show itself, hiding behind a gray sky.

Thankfully it was not one of those dreary days as Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped out of the front door of the manor. Despite a thick fog formed from his breath, he relished the tickling of heat on his face and the taste of crisp air. For the last few months, the cold had locked him in the suffocating walls of the Davenport manor. At times the house felt like a fire pit, as fires were lit in order to fight off the cold. A bit too well, in the boy's opinion. How did coatmen live in such prisons? Maybe that was why Achilles was so pessimistic.

Speaking of which, the native spotted the old man sitting in the front seat of… what was it? A carriage? The contraption, whatever it may be, was tied to a pair of horses, who snorted and pawed at the ground, fog rising from their nostrils. Curious, Ratonhnhaké:ton neared.

"Good morning," Achilles rumbled, peering at the boy beneath the rim of his hat.

The teenager nodded in greeting. "To you as well." He eyed the carriage. It was in the same state as the manor—it had certainly seen better days, as the wood was chipped and even rotting in some places, but it seemed secure enough to hold. "Taking a trip?"

The old man nodded. "I've decided to do something about the house. And you're going to help me." He gestured to the carriage with his cane. "Get in."

Instead of immediately obeying, Ratonhnhaké:ton asked, "Where are we going?"

In few times the native had seen, Achilles's lips curled in a knowing smile. "Boston."

* * *

Ratonhnhaké:ton jumped out of the carriage before it even came to a complete stop. He gasped.

Great stone structures towered above him, taller than even the walls that defended his village. They stretched as far as the eye could see, in all different shades and sizes. Some were made of wood, some were made of stone, but all of them were brilliantly painted and perfectly symmetrical. The walls were broken by translucent windows and colorful signs, random words etched onto them. But Ratonhnhaké:ton cared little for the buildings.

He watched in amazement at the people. The amount of colors people wore was astonishing, and their clothing was nothing like his people's. Men wore tight trousers with polished boots reaching their calves and buttoned vests, covered by large coats that swallowed them whole. Their hair—shades of which also varied between persons—was tied in ribbons, not a strand out of place. The women meanwhile wore dresses that reached their ankles, far longer than any Mohawk dress. Some had their feet swallowed by the folds, forcing them to raise their skirts to prevent dragging it through the dirty snow that lined the streets. Unlike the men, the women had their hair was tied close to the scalp, some even hiding it in cloth.

Why? The women of his village always showed the length of their hair, whether it may be braided or not. The only thing the colonists had in common was their skin, which was as pale as the snow around them.

But apparently no one cared for their appearance, going about their business. The entire street, which was also laced with stone, was filled with travelers, rushing back and forth. Some chattered eagerly with others, sharing gossip. Some called at the top of their lungs holding papers, as if advertising themselves. Others called from stands filled with food of all different kinds, drawing crowds to observe the materials. The mass would only be broken when a lone horse or carriage charged through, forcing the sea of people to split. The hooves of the animals clacked loudly on the paved road, even above the noise of people, accompanied by a snort or a whinny.

Ratonhnhaké:ton dared to inhale, taking in the scents around him. Nothing like the smells of the forest, which were always fresh and earthen with the aroma of flowers drifting on the breeze. There was no such thing here. The sharp stench of feces and piss was the first the assault his nostrils, along with a rotting smell, making the poor boy gag and waved the air in front of his face.

Suddenly a pale woman crossed in front of Ratonhnhaké:ton, completely ignoring his existence. However, the native noticed hers, observing the strange thing she held over head. He vaguely remembered Achilles called it an umbrella. Why was she using it? It wasn't even raining! He meant to look away, but his eyes instead fell to her chest. By the Great Mo—

Suddenly there was a sharp pain came from the back of his head, provoking a startled cry.

"Don't stare," Achilles hissed. Obviously he noticed what the teenager was observing so intently.

Immediately the boy's cheeks reddened and he glued his gaze to the ground, hands together in obedience. Assured his pupil was disciplined, Achilles turned away.

"Come," he ordered.

He limped away, leaning on his cane. The snow made a poor support, making his progress harder. It didn't help there was still a bite in the air, no doubt creating additional pain in his leg. At least he could be assured the ice would be melting soon, as winter was drawing to its close. Seeing the extent of Achilles's weakness during the cold months, Ratonhnhaké:ton loyally stayed by his side, but right now his mind was elsewhere.

"This place is incredible!" he exclaimed. "The people, the sounds and smells. I could walk these streets for days and know half its wonders."

"I thought the same as you upon a time," Achilles replied, though his tone didn't share the same excitement. "But these days, I much prefer the quiet of the countryside."

"But there is so much life here. So many opportunities."

Achilles turned solemn as he looked ahead. Ratonhnhaké:ton followed his gaze to notice a well-dressed white man glaring at the old man.

"For a few, my boy. For a few," Achilles mumbled. The strange look he wore disappeared as he regarded his apprentice once again. "Hancock's Store is close to here. You're to buy the items on this list." A paper materialized in the old man's hand as he handed it to Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Tell them where the carriage is and they'll see that it's loaded. Understood?"

"Yes," the teenager nodded.

"Good." That was when a plump bag appeared in Achilles's hand, jingling with coins. Ratonhnhaké:ton accepted it, but couldn't help raising his eyebrows. So heavy! His mentor ignored his expression as he went on. "You're also going to need a new name. Your skin's fair enough that you might pass for a Spaniard or Italian. Better be thought as that than a native. And both are better than I."

"That is not true," Ratonhnhaké:ton refused.

What made Achilles any different than the people here? After all, he did take in the native as his apprentice and sheltered him in the brutal winter months, even if he was reluctant and still was. And he was once the proud leader of a powerful Brotherhood. If anything, Achilles was better than them. However, the old man thought otherwise.

"What's true and what is aren't always the same," he said sternly.

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighed, knowing he could not convince the stubborn man otherwise. He wisely chose to address what Achilles originally wanted. "What would you call me, then?"

Achilles squinted his eyes as he analyzed Ratonhnhaké:ton from head-to-toe. The boy tried not to squirm under his gaze.

"Connor…" he decided, a strange tone filling his voice. Suddenly the old man nodded, as if satisfied with himself. "Yes, that will be your name."

Connor. So he was Connor now. No longer was he a boy from the forest, but an Assassin-in-training. The teenager stood still for a minute, playing with the name in his head. However Achilles as impatient, the old man pressing his cane against the small of his back.

"Alright then, off you go," he ordered.

Ra— _Connor_ obeyed, walking off into the streets of Boston, alone.

* * *

Achilles should have been more specific when he said "near here." Connor scoured the sides of the buildings, looking for any signs for Hancock's Store. So far nothing. It was no exaggeration when he said Boston was endless. Suddenly the boy eyed a tall, decorated building in front of him, a tower emerging from the roof. The Customs House. Achilles mentioned it when they first arrived.

He cocked his head. That would be a good view to see the city… He took a step towards the structure, only to stop at a shout.

"Oi! Lobster!" a harsh voice yelled.

Connor glanced over to see a man charging across the street, headed straight for the building. The native followed his gaze to see two men in bright red coats with pristine white trousers, muskets resting on their shoulders. The redcoats glanced at the man that caught their attention, one of them narrowing his eyes.

"May I help you?" the man sneered. Apparently he was a "lobster." Whatever that was.

"For the past week you and your cronies have been harassing me and invading my house," the coatman seethed, coming to a halt in front of the lobster. "And I come back today, to find your soldiers in front of my own home, telling me I no longer belong there. My own home!"

"That's because you didn't pay your dues. Discuss it with your collector."

"Those dues were already paid! You have no right to trespass onto my property and take what is rightfully mine! Is this how things work in London? You knock any door you come across and make yourself at home, regardless who may be livin' there? Or is this just for us common folk? Just because we are born across the sea doesn't we don't have English blood and lesser than you."

Connor just blinked at the man's rant, not really knowing what to make of it. Achilles took time to describe him to the current state of politics, including the people that were foreign to his land came from another, loyal to the British Crown. But now, it seemed that wasn't as much the case, as the raging coatman had explained. His outburst had attracted an audience, people in the plaza passing and sending curious glances. They immediately noticed the man's red face as he invaded the guard's personal space, who was now bristling at the insults. The soldier's partner took a step forward and intervened.

"You should have more respect," he sneered. "You and your lot would be speaking French right now if it wasn't for us."

"Respect? Why would anyone have respect for pompous arses like you?"

Connor was suddenly reminded when he was attacked by the bear all those months ago. A sense of dread had overwhelmed him before the beast attacked, and it was only his sharp instincts that saved his life. He felt the same now, sensing the tension rolling across the air in waves, waiting patiently to crash down and drown unsuspecting victims. The native swallowed.

This place, Boston, was completely different than his valley, but it obeyed the same rules. There were predators and prey, and nature responded to the presence of danger. There was a bear, and it was about to be angered. And Connor responded by leaving the plaza as quickly as possible, ignoring the heated gathering of hungry predators.

Connor stepped into the store, which was considerably warmer than the chill outside. He looked around. It was a single room made of wood, save for a wall of windows that were foggy from the difference of temperatures. The walls were lined with shelves filled with trinkets of all different kinds, many of which Connor did not have a name for.

"You lost?" a gruff, accented voice snapped.

The boy jerked from his stupor and glanced at the source. He was met with a plump man easily two times his size, an oversized blue coat wrapping around his body. He leered at the teenager from behind the counter, as if he couldn't decide if he was a bug or not. Connor ignored the look as he neared the counter, holding out the paper Achilles gave him.

"I need the items on this list," he said. He set it down, but the man didn't give it a glance.

"Will you be paying with coin or trade?" he demanded.

It was then Connor pulled out the large bag Achilles had given him. He turned it over, spilling dozens of silver coins onto the surface with a metallic song. Immediately the man's eyes gleamed and a greedy smile pulled on his lips. It was only then he gave attention to the list.

"Some of these things I have. Some I don't," he mused. "Lumber's hard to come by now that my supplier's up and gone. Where do you want this delivered?"

"Our wagon is next to the Customs House," Connor replied.

The man nodded. Without another word, he wrapped his arm around the pile of coins, like a barrier between it and Connor. He slid the entire stack to his side, giving a quizzical look at his customer. The boy said nothing. Achilles had tried to explain the prospect of money to him, only to give the native headaches. It was confusing to say the least. Why did they have to worry about exchanging metals when they could just exchange the materials? However, he made no comment, not wanting to look like a fool.

With a nod of farewell, Connor stepped outside the store. He immediately realized something was wrong.

The air was colder, making the hairs on the boy's skin stand on end and shivers to crawl across his body. But it was not from the weather. Connor could feel the bear breathing on his neck. He looked around to see chaos on the streets.

Travelers that once took their time through the city ran in all directions, panic and fear in their eyes. Red-coated men filled the streets, either bellowing at the top of their lungs, flailing like a confused animal, or quarreling with the townspeople. Connor blinked as he watched one soldier shove a man against a wall, only for the citizen to snatch the musket and shove back, invoking a dangerous game of tug-of-war.

A crowd made of both citizens and soldiers was racing down the street. Wasn't that towards the Customs House? The panic filling the air was seeping into his veins. He jogged after the group, not failing to notice more chaos. More people were shouting and fighting, with merchandise spilled onto the street. Connor dared to slow when he reached the plaza from before, only to find it much more crowded.

People filled every space of the square, many of them bellowing and throwing angry fists in the air. However, some stood confused, like they had no idea what was going on or were expecting to see something else. These people kept glancing at the tower's bell, which filled the air with loud clangs. By the marketplace at the edge of the street, Connor jumped at the sound of crashing as citizens tore the stands apart. Literally.

"I have to find Achilles," Connor mumbled to himself. He forced his way through the crowd, trying to avoid contact and flailing limbs. Thankfully he spotted a hunched, familiar figure. Achilles didn't even acknowledge him as the winded boy came to his side. "What happened?"

"That's what we're going to find out," the old man replied. "Come on."

Despite his slow pace earlier, the ex-Assassin hobbled speedily across the plaza, closer to the Customs House. The crowd was thicker here. The duo paused at its edge. Connor glanced at the steps of the state house, only to notice the two soldiers from before were gone. In their place were new ones, and more of them. Up to a dozen. Each had their musket trained in front of them, the bayonets inches away from the line of people. One man stood apart, unarmed, looking over the crowd with a panicked expression.

"I say again, disperse!" he shouted over the noise. "Congregating in this matter is forbidden!"

"We're not going anywhere, bug!" a man retorted.

"Why don't you go back to England?!" another shouted.

"No good can come from this chaos!" the soldier, obviously the commander, insisted. "Return to your homes and all will be forgiven!"

"Not until you've answered for your crimes!"

"If you want us gone, why don't you just shoot us? You damned cowards!"

"We ain't scared of you!"

The insults came one after another, blurring together to make it impossible for Connor to decipher any of them. He didn't have to, as suddenly an iron grip captured his arm.

"There," Achilles hissed under his breath. Connor followed his gaze. His eyes widened to what he saw.

Haytham Kenway.

The Templar Grandmaster wore the same cobalt coat in his portrait, completely free of tears or stains. A tricorne hat of the same shade rested neatly on his head, with a polished sword clipped to his belt. His hair, which had been shown as dark brown, was instead silver, but still tied back in the same crimson ribbon. He stood tall and straight, arms folded behind his back. He held his chin high as he scanned over the crowd, eyes cold and calculating.

"That's… my father?" Connor breathed.

The man Connor wondered about for every spare moment of his life, and dreamed of one day meeting—speaking to him, was a matter of feet in front of him. Yet he was so far out of reach. And this man, he looked nothing like he imagined him to be. Could they really be related?

"Yes," Achilles confirmed. "Which means trouble is sure to follow. This crowd is a powder keg. We can't allow him to light the fuse."

Connor shifted his weight as he felt his stomach knot. He looked back to Haytham, only to notice a figure next to him. It took him a second look to realize it was a woman. Unlike the long dresses he had seen, she wore a dark brown coat, buttoned up except for the upper chest, showing pale, ivory waistcoat underneath. A pair of leather bracers covered her forearms. Black trousers clung to her legs, her calves swallowed by dark leather boots.

Her skin was pale, but not as much as the other colonists. It was dark enough to see the startling white mark of scars on her face. One was a curved line around her left eye like a crescent moon. Another was a jagged line from her lip to her chin, like someone meant to strike at her neck but missed. Dark, long hair cascaded down her back, strands lashing like whips in the wind. Her dark brown eyes were sharp and piercing, like the tip of a dagger.

"Who's that?" Connor asked.

Achilles followed his gaze. Immediately the old man froze, every muscle tensing to allow Connor to see the veins under his skin.

"Selah…" the mentor breathed, voice barely audible.

Connor blinked. Selah? The woman was speaking in a hushed tone with Haytham, their heads close together. Suddenly she nodded and her gaze hardened. She snatched a musket from a nearby soldier, ignoring his stunned look, before slipping away. Haytham looked back to the crowd, ignoring her departure.

"You have to follow her," Achilles ordered, his voice low.

"But—"

"But nothing! Go!"

With a nod, he hastily ducked through the crowd, following the woman's trail. She disappeared in a dark alleyway, weaving through people in her way. Connor did the same. He watched as she stepped to turn in a corner, but suddenly snapped her gaze over her shoulder. The native ducked in a cranny of a building. Only using one eye, he watched the woman narrow her eyes, as if she knew he was there. But instead of nearing him, she walked out of sight.

Connor gulped and built up his courage, following. He turned the corner to see a ladder against the wall of a building, away from prying eyes. It led to the roof of the structure. The woman was already halfway up it, scaling at a rapid pace despite she still clutched the musket. It was only when she disappeared onto the roof Connor dared to scamper up the ladder as well.

Immediately the noise of the riot rose to meet his ears, filling the air. He glanced down to see a perfect view of the entire plaza, even the steps of the Customs House. The warrior looked over to see the woman crawling across the roof, body lowered to stay out of sight. The boy ducked behind a chimney, staying of her sight. The woman paused at the edge of the roof, kneeling. She brought the butt of the musket to her shoulder and cocked her over the barrel, bayonet pointed at the crowd below. Connor's heart leaped in panic. No! She was going to fire at the civilians!

He didn't hesitate. Ripping his tomahawk from his belt, he charged for the Templar. He raised his weapon to bring it down on her head… only for the woman to whirl around. Connor hissed in pain as something sharp sliced into his cheek. Thankfully momentum was on his side, allowing him to ram into the woman and pin her to the roof. The force made her lose her grip on her knife, having the blade clatter off the roof.

"Your plot has ended," Connor snarled.

"That's what you think," the woman replied, sneering.

What? The native saw a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He looked to his right and was greeted with a horrific scene.

Charles Lee. The man stood on the roof on the opposite side of the street, not bothering with hiding. He stood straight and confident, more so than Haytham. Connor's blood froze as he saw his eyes gleam in the same maliciousness as that day in the forest; a smug, nasty grin on his face. He raised his pistol in the air, pulling the trigger.

Immediately a sharp thunder filled the air.

Connor looked back down at the plaza to see one of the soldiers had fallen and was out cold, struck by a tossed stone. However the commander had looked around wildly at the sound, and failed to see the action. He saw his fallen comrade, his eyes widening with disbelief. Quickly replaced by fury.

"Damn you!" he roared. He pointed at the crowd. "FIRE!"

The soldiers didn't hesitate. Connor watched in horror, helpless, as the line of weapons fired. Several bangs filled the air with flashes of light, immediately followed by screams. Several bodies fell to the ground. Immediately the riot turned into a stampede, people running away as a single mass. Citizens were shoved out of the way and onto the ground, only to be trampled.

Bile rose to Connor's throat. No…

Suddenly the warrior gagged as something slammed into his stomach. His back crashed onto the roof, his head spinning. Standing over him was the woman, her eyes cold.

"That will teach you to interfere with our plans," she growled.

Without warning, she dashed out of sight. Immediately Connor leaped to his feet, but it was too late. The Templar was gone. Seeing no sign of her, he glanced down back at the Customs House. He wished he hadn't.

Haytham, whom had remained unmoving the entire event, suddenly lunged towards a soldier. He grabbed the man's arm, getting his attention. Instead of speaking, Haytham pointed—right at Connor.

The Assassin apprentice ran.

* * *

 **Historical Trivia: The Boston Massacre occurred on March 5, 1770. The argument grew heated and attracted a crowd. Fearing the masses, reinforcements were called in, who tried to quell the people, who were on the verge of rioting. Making it worse, the church bells were rung, which signalled fire, drawing many more people from their homes. Eventually a rock was thrown, striking a soldier in the head and knocking him unconscious. Mistakened he had been killed, the commander ordered the soldiers to fire, killing five unarmed civilians and injuring several others.**

 **So that's what actually happened and my version. I pretty much mixed my own and Ubisoft's interpretation. The scene between the soldier and the citizen should've been reversed. It was the soldier who didn't pay his debt, and the man was demanding payment.**

 **Tell me what you guys think!**


	8. Part I: River Rescue

"Oi! Stop!"

Selah ignored the guard's shout, instead sprinting down the street. She tried to run as fast as she could, but her boots either kept getting caught in unshoveled snow or slipping on the icy cobblestone. Blast it, how she hated the cold!

Between her awkward fumbles, she saw her pursuers—a group of redcoats—closing in behind her. In desperate attempt to lose them, Selah weaved between buildings, running down alleys, cutting across yards, and raced down streets. She scaled or slid under fences effortlessly and dodged around any obstacle in her way. Her desperate attempts gave her more ground from her clumsy pursuers, but they were still too close to risk scaling a nearby building. No matter how fast she may climb, her undefended body would make target practice.

Selah raced down the street, heading towards the side of a tavern to make the risk, but never got there. The woman skidded to a halt when a line of soldiers appeared, blockading the entire street. They immediately drew their weapons, causing the Templar to skid to a halt. The action was so sudden that her boots lost leverage and she slid across the ground, but she caught herself before she could slam into the wall of guards.

Selah jumped to her feet just before the first group crashed upon her, making curse that they had caught up. She tore down an alleyway, now two armies behind her. She cut around the corner into a backyard, only to realize her mistake with terror.

The backyard was closed in, with cold, foreboding walls surrounding her. Selah couldn't help but remember when she was a girl, when she had attempted to escape the Templars that kidnapped her from her home. Only be trapped in this very same yard.

The woman glanced up at the wall before her, wondering if she had the chance to make it to the roof before she was either shot or stoned to death. But it was already too late.

A stampede of heavy boots and rattling weapons sounded behind her, followed by furious snarls. Accepting her fate, Selah halted and spun around, only to be greeted by a sea of red. As well as a dozen muskets pointed at her chest.

"All this just for one abiding citizen?" Selah sneered in a mocking tone. "Do you really have nothing better to do?"

"Cut the rubbish, you—you're a woman!" the commander retorted harshly, but cut off his insult with surprise when he double took Selah's appearance. His eyes widened and lowered his weapon in shock.

The Templar merely shrugged. "Not only do you fail to control a rioting mass, you fail to contain a mere _woman_. Perhaps his Majesty's servants aren't as effective as he boasts."

Selah almost laughed when the commander's face turned red, obviously dealing a vicious blow to his ego. He raised his sword and opened his mouth to order his men to fire, but never had the chance.

Suddenly his body jolted, and his face froze. He stood motionless for a full second before gravity finally captured him. The man crumpled to the ground face-first. Immediately his squadron recoiled like he had died, but Selah noticed the dart sticking from his neck. She grinned, just as a dark shadow fell from the rooftops.

Screams rang out as Shay pounced on a pair of redcoats. Immediately the men turned to the commotion, failing to see a second figure approaching from the alleyway. Haytham struck his sword through the closest soldier, quickly followed by Lee who sliced a man's chest.

Helpless wails, wet noises, and thuds of clashing weapons filled the air. Selah unsheathed her hidden blades, but before she could join the fray, a pair of soldiers charged towards her. She braced, digging her heels in the snow.

The first one swiped his bayonet towards her like a sword, but the warrior easily duck out of the way. Noticing the second one, she dodged again. If she had her sword with her, she would be batting their weapons away, but only her hands and her blades, she didn't trust she was stronger than the hardy men before her. Instead, she depended on her speed.

In a blink of an eye, the Templar struck out her hidden blade, jabbing it into one soldier's stomach. It was shallow, but it was enough for the man to cry out in pain and double over, precisely what she wanted. Selah buried her second hidden blade into the man's throat. But she quickly pulled away before the second redcoat could attack her in retribution. Almost like a dancer, Selah spun around the regular to face his back, slicing her blade across the back of his neck. He fell with a muffled thud. Then all was quiet.

That was until a sharp voice cut through the frigid air.

"Must you _always_ draw attention to yourself?" Haytham snapped as he pulled his sword from the last victim. "Really, what do you think would happen when you ran away after those soldiers saw you on the roof?"

The adrenaline now fading from her systems, Selah felt a tug of embarrassment when she realize the Grandmaster had seen her clumsy escape. Instead of shame, rage filled the woman's veins when she noticed Lee standing tall, leering at her.

" _I'm_ the one who drew attention?!" she retorted. She focused her glare on the pompous general. "I had everything under control!"

"Oh, really?" Lee drawled. "That's not what I saw."

Selah snarled while Shay was a brooding form, glancing over to Haytham.

"Where did that Indian come from?" the Irishman asked.

"Likely a native protesting the treatment of his people," Haytham guessed.

"But he targeted _me_ ," Selah pointed out.

"Not all of them are peaceful." The Grandmaster shifted his gaze to Selah. "Rejoice-now the guards are looking for him instead of you. I doubt he will survive the night."

* * *

"You left me in Boston!" Connor accused viciously.

"Welcome back," Achilles replied in an easy tone, as if oblivious to the boy's anger. "Good to see you in one piece."

"I spent the half the night running around Boston as soldiers pursued me, under the false assumption that I killed those people, when they were the murderers! When it was Charles Lee that caused it all!"

Achilles was silent during the boy's rant, expression inscrutable underneath his hat. He ignored the snow and mud Connor tracked as he paced across the floor.

"Do you do this to all your apprentices?" he demanded. "Or just the unwanted ones from the forest?"

"There is no better teacher than experience," Achilles replied calmly, completely ignoring his question. "I wanted to see how you fared in dangerous territory alone. Which you weren't, as I saw to it that you had help."

"…Samuel Adams."

Connor would admit it—he wouldn't have a chance if the man hadn't come to his rescue. He wasn't even aware the guards but a city-wide watch on him. Why would he? He was innocent! He was grateful Adams believed him. But instead of clearing his name like the native expected, the man only use more lies to cover the ones against him. It was a strange concept, to use lies to counter one another. But Adams explained it was how things were done, and there was no way to change it.

Still, the man was a surprising teacher about colonist society. Connor always wondered how news spread so quickly throughout such a large city—he assumed by word, like his village. Instead, it was a far more dangerous thing—propaganda. Adams taught him how to combat it and in doing so, taught him something else. Not all colonists had forsaken his people.

Adams knew what he was, but yet treated him like an equal. He even went out of his way to help him. Connor wouldn't forget such kindness. Still, it hadn't escaped his notice of the glint in the stranger's eyes. A rebellious, scheming glint, like he could come up with a plan to counter anything. And he didn't mind using it.

"Is he an Assassin?" Connor asked.

Achilles shook his head. "No, he is merely an old friend. He owed me a few favors, so I requested his aid. Can you still blame me for that?"

Connor went silent. He was still upset that Achilles abandoned him, and he would not forgive him anytime soon, but he did try to ensure his safety. Though Connor believed there could be other ways to do that… But knowing nothing could be done, he went what was on his mind since the disaster at Boston.

"That woman at the Customs House… who was she?" he asked his mentor.

Achilles looked away. "It does not concern you," he growled.

"I would like to think otherwise, considering she has my father's ear and was the one sent to provoke the soldiers."

Achilles snapped his head up at that, eyes wide with disbelief. "Are you certain?"

"She was about to fire into the crowd until I stopped her. But her plans were assured by Charles Lee."

Instead of addressing Connor, the old man gave a throaty sigh and shook his head. His next words were a mutter under his breath, like he was saying to himself. Connor had to listen to hear it. "First _him_ , now you as well, Selah. How could you fall to their level?"

Him? Who was that? Haytham? Well, it did not matter.

"Who is she?" Connor repeated.

Another sigh, this one of defeat. "Her name is Selah. She was an Assassin apprentice, much like you."

It felt like a raging elk rammed into Connor's gut. "She was… an Assassin?"

"Young and naïve, but promising. James Crawford, one of my best, spoke highly of her. To be honest, I thought she was dead. Apparently I was wrong."

"Why is she with the Templars?"

"There is no way to know. But if what you say is true, then this bodes ill. She could become a serious threat to us. You may even have to eliminate her."

"But if she was an Ass—"

"Who betrayed the Brotherhood to taint our Creed in the name of the Templars," Achilles spat. "She deserves no pity."

Connor flinched at the venom in his voice. He hadn't heard such before. The former mentor said it not only against Selah, but like her deed was the highest of sins. What would make him think such?

The boy thought of Boston. Selah was loyally by Haytham's side and watched the riot with an apathetic gaze, like she could care less about them. She was going to shoot into the crowd—kill innocents—if Connor had not stopped her. And he didn't, as she knew Charles Lee was there, ensuring their evil deed if she failed. Now dead bodies littered the streets of Boston.

Rage heated Connor's blood. No. She deserved no pity. She was a traitor. And if Boston was only one of the Templars' schemes… he feared what else they could be plotting.

"What of my father?" the Assassin apprentice demanded.

"Gone to the wind, I'm afraid," Achilles sighed.

"We have to find him!"

"We will. After we repair the house."

"But he's out there plotting who knows what!"

"And what would you do when you found him? _If_ you found him? You're a boy who's yet to be an Assassin. He's a full-grown man who's spent decades honing his skills. If you're going to stand a chance against the Templars, then you're going to need the proper training."

It was then loud banging came from the window, so hard it sounded like the glass would break. Both men whirled around to see a ragged face in the window. A bushy, untrimmed beard covered the man's chin and his unkempt hair sprouted from his strange hat.

"Help! Help!" he screamed, the sound muffled through the glass.

Connor exchanged a baffled look with Achilles, who was solemn. But realizing it was an emergency, the teenager didn't hesitate to dash out of the room and out of the house. He blinked when he recognized the figure. Wait, wasn't that one of the men he saw on the edge of the valley, when he first came? Where was the other one?

"What's going on?" the boy demanded.

"Sir, please, help me! He's going to die!" the man begged.

"Who?"

"There's no time! Please come!"

The stranger whirled around as he said the words. Not even seeing if Connor was following, he sprinted away, towards the river. The Assassin apprentice followed hot on his heels. The forest went by as blur as they raced across the snow, only for the man to skid to a halt on the water's edge. The river was swollen from the melting snow, the current churning at a fearsome speed as it tried to purge the excess water.

"There!" the man wailed, pointing. "He's just past the bridge!"

Connor came to his side and squinted his eyes to scan the water. Immediately he saw a large log floating across the water, exactly where the stranger pointed. Clinging onto it was the other man from before, completely soaked. He was fighting to keep a hold on the log, but the water made it slippery and Connor suspected his fingers had to be numb from the cold. The result was the helpless person flailing in the water, trying to keep his head above the surface as the current tried to force him under. The teenager could hear his coughs from here as he choked on the water.

"Someone! Help!" he wailed.

Instinct kicked in. Without warning, Connor tore down the riverbank, trying to keep pace with the drowning man. To his dread, the current was faster than he expected, the distance between them widening at a frightening pace. However, the Great Mother decided to be merciful, as suddenly the log rammed into a boulder, stopping its progress.

The native didn't hesitate to leap onto a fallen tree overhanging the river. The man was still clinging to log, trying to take advantage of the pause to strengthen his hold. Connor bent down and extended his hand for the stranger.

"Grab my hand!" he yelled.

The man glanced up and saw his savior. Gasping, he raised a weak arm to snatch the boy's. But the Great Mother's gift was only a tease.

Suddenly there was a sound of shattering wood and a cry. Without warning, the man disappeared and was already down the stream, his makeshift raft gone. Connor cursed and sped off. He leapt over rocks and stray branches, going as fast as his legs would allow, ignoring the burning pain. Almost there. Almost there. Almost there.

The river curved around a bend, only for the teenager's stomach to drop. Up ahead, the river disappeared. A sickening roar filled the Assassin apprentice's ears, making his skin crawl. A waterfall. The man was heading right for it.

Connor realized what he had to do. With a gulp of air, he plunged into the river. The shock of the icy water took his breath away. He resurfaced to take of gasp of air, only to feel needles piercing his skin. He pushed the discomfort away, already paddling towards the man. His head had just disappeared under the water when the teenager reached him. The native took a breath before diving back under and grabbed the man's arms, pulling him back to the surface.

But they weren't out of the woods yet, as Connor still felt his body moving without his permission, the current pulling at his clothes. Ordering the man —who was struggling to remain conscious—to help him, they paddled towards the bank as fast as they could. Instead of fighting against the current, Connor used it to propel them towards their destination. It was a risky gamble as the pair collapsed on the muddy riverbed, the edge of the waterfall only a few yards away.

The teenager was gasping like a fish out of water, completely sapped of energy, while the man was vomiting up the water that had filled his lungs. Suddenly he heard the heavy footsteps of the other man, followed by a shout. Connor looked up to the newcomer, as he looked back and forth between the exhausted boy and his friend, who was hacking furiously. Instead of helping his near dead friend, the first man came over to Connor's side, lifting him to his feet.

"What this _knob-end_ is trying to say is that he is forever in your debt," he said.

"Who are you callin' a knob-end?" the other man complained between coughs.

"You! Because you are one!" The man bent down to help him up, but paused to look up at Connor. He gestured to himself and then to the half-drowned man. "My name's Godfrey and this idiot is Terry. We're so terribly sorry to be introducing ourselves this way."

"What were you doing with those logs?" Connor asked.

"One of the dangers of lumberin'," Godfrey replied. "We've got the camp set up a few rods off of here, as we're cuttin' timber. We're hopin' to open a mill in the area."

"There's a good place near the manor on the hill where I am staying."

Immediately Godfrey's eyes brightened. "Ha! I like you already! We'll have a look. Thank you again, Mr. um—"

"Ra—Connor."

Godfrey nodded vigorously. "Ah! Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Connor!"

* * *

Achilles gave a groan when Connor told him the news of their new neighbors.

"I'll miss the peace and quiet, but we certainly need the wood," he sighed. "And you did save a man from certain death, all the while risking your own. A rare feat, these days."

Connor only blinked at the statement, not really sure if it was a compliment or not. He had just done it on instinct. "Th-thank you…" he decided on.

Achilles only made a dismissive hand. "But, you still have a long way to go if you're ever going to call yourself an Assassin. And that's going to be hard enough, training in a rotting house."

Connor nodded in agreement. "The manor needs a lot of work."

"It's not the only thing."

The teenager cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"There is something else you need to see. Come on."

It was then the old man snatched his cane and planted it on the ground. He shakily rose to his feet before limping away, towards the front door. Connor stayed where he was, watching his mentor with a narrowed, confused gaze.

"What is it?" the boy asked.

"An… asset."

* * *

"What is this place?"

"What does it look like? A house."

"You're… Someone lives here?"

Connor thought the manor was bad. It was nothing compared to this place. Not nearly the size of one of his village's longhouses, the wood was pale and the boards barely held together. Rot clung to the foundation and the windows were stained and cracked. It literally looked like the shack would fall from a single gust of wind.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Achilles's voice came. Connor looked over his shoulder, skeptical. The old man ignored him as he gestured towards the deteriorated door with his cane. "Knock."

The teenager rolled his eyes as he realized he had no choice. He knocked gently, as if the door would fall from his touch. Despite the soft thuds, the immediate reply was harsh.

"GO 'WAY!" a gruff voice bellowed.

Connor flinched. Achilles was unmoving.

"Mr. Faulkner!" the former Assassin called. "It's Achilles."

There was a long pause. Connor was just about to turn to his mentor for help when he heard a strange noise from behind the door. It sounded like a cross between a cougar and a bear's growl. Suddenly the door opened, revealing a tall figure.

He was easily over a head taller than Connor and Achilles both, and just barely broader than the former. The man's face wasn't pleasant to look at, with peeling skin and dark spots with unwashed grim. An ashen beard took up half his features, looking as if untrimmed for quite some time. His greasy, unruly hair was pulled back in a makeshift tie, looking as unstable as his home. He wore a thick, brown leather coat that wrapped around his body with tall boots of the same color swallowing almost his entire legs. The clothing was stained and faded, showing it had seen better ways.

"Oh, just you, old man," he slurred. "I'd set my home in order if I'd known you'd be comin'."

"May we come in?" Achilles only replied.

"'Course. 'Course."

The stranger, Faulkner, opened the door wider and shuffled back inside. He collapsed on a chair, a large bottle in his hand. Connor followed him in, only to regret it. A vile stench assaulted his nostrils, forcing the poor boy to gag and crunch his face in disgust. He covered his nose with his hand, but it didn't help. It smelled like stale vomit, along with a sharp smell Connor didn't have a name for.

He looked around and didn't see much. There was a desk pushed up against the wall, covered by papers that didn't seem to be touched in years. The chair Faulkner sat in was beside it, with a small cot was shoved in the opposite corner. A stack of wood took up one wall with a pile of blankets and clothing on the other side.

While the native was struggling not to purge and hold his breath, Achilles came in and didn't even flinch. "This boy's name is Connor," he introduced. "He's here to restore the property."

Faulkner, who was taking a long swig of his drink, sputtered out a laugh. "Restore? Pardon my manners! And here I was thinking you came in for a chat. But _restore_!"

The man's tone was filled with mockery. He took another gulp. "Her wings are clipped, old man. A different bird flies over the seas."

"I offer you a set of new wings. And to take back what is yours."

Faulkner gave a skeptical wave. Achilles still pressed.

"Do you not wish to sail again?" the old man asked. "Ever since you came here, you've been howling for the sea. Reclaim her, Captain. Have this boy to help you achieve that."

The drunk curled his lip. "I ain't a captain. I won't ever take the wheel of a ship again."

"No, but what if this boy could take the wheel for you?" Connor glanced at him, trying to understand what he was getting into. "Take him under your wing, Mr. Faulkner. Teach him to fly over the seas."

For a long time, Faulkner sat there in silence, unmoving and staring. Connor glanced between the two men, the tension pulling his nerves. Eventually Achilles got impatient.

"If not, I can charter another ship. I'm sure there are plenty that are just as capable," the old man said.

"Now hold on," Faulkner snapped immediately, rising from his chair. "She's still the fastest in the Atlantic."

"Is that so?"

Ignoring Achilles, the drunken man barged past Connor and Achilles, stumbling on the front porch.

"Sure, she needs some attention—minor things mostly," Faulkner said. "But with a little affection, she'll fly again."

Connor looked around. It was just them. No signs of any woman. He looked back at Faulkner, who was beaming proudly. Was he seeing visions?

"Who is 'she'?" the boy finally asked.

Without warning, Faulkner rounded on him. Since they were less than a foot apart, the boy flinched back as the man's foul breath assaulted him.

"Who is she?!" the drunk roared. "She's the Aquila, boy! The Ghost of the North Seas!"

He gestured toward the cove stretched out before them. On the opposite side, was a large cliff with the house settled on top. But that's not what Faulkner gestured towards. Just off shore was something that reminded Connor of the canoes of his village. It was completely made of wood and was similar in shape, but that's where the similarities ended. It was easily many times the size—like a giant to an ant. While the canoes of his village were open to allow the occupants inside, the top of the giant was closed with wood. Two great trunks that looked like trees with only two branches were leaning against each other, looking like they were damaged in a storm. Great pieces of cloth hung from the branches, torn and filthy. The giant was half-submerged in water, like the ocean wanted to eat it whole.

Oh, he remembered what these things were. Travelers coming to his village would describe them with pride. He even saw a few during his trip to Boston. From what he could see, at least.

"You mean… the boat," Connor deadpanned.

"B-b-boat?!" Faulkner sputtered in disbelief. "She's a ship! Make no mistake of it!" The man glared at Achilles. "I thought you brought him to restore order! I reckon he's the greenest thing in the frontier."

Connor didn't know to be insulted by the comment or not, not knowing what he meant. He was just knew it wasn't pleasant. He looked to Achilles, only to see a strange gleam in the man's eye. Something he never saw before.

"But I thought you had no interest with her being restored," the ex-Assassin pointed out.

"I didn't say that," Faulkner retorted. "I dunno whatcha talkin' about."

"Yes, you did.

"Stop playing with me, old man."

Connor looked between them during their banter like there was a ball being tossed.

"Playing what?" Achilles questioned innocently.

"That Assassin talk! I don't much appreciate it!"

"As you can see there are no Assassins. Just men speaking of business. But if you have no interest in having your ship restored—"

"I do want her restored!" Faulkner wailed.

"Oh? And how do you plan to accomplish this?"

"Well…" The drunk sputtered, looking overwhelmed. Suddenly he looked back to Achilles as if he decided something. "I'm going to need some pounds."

"That can be arranged. A pleasure, Mr. Faulkner." Achilles turned to Connor, eyes still gleaming, this time with a smile. The boy's eyes widened when he realized the cause. Amusement. "Connor, meet me back at the manor when you've finished here. There is work to be done."

With that, the old man hobbled away, leaving Connor and Faulkner alone. The drunk was already chugging on his drink again.

"You said it requires repairs," Connor recalled. "What does it need?"

"She needs a lot of work," Faulkner corrected. "A ship's a 'she,' boy. And yes she can be refit, but I'm lacking the proper supplies. I need some… some quality timber to help me get started."

"I can see to that. What else?"

"Someone with the skills to put her back together. Someone who is skilled with wood—a… a carpenter!"

Connor blinked. "A what?"

Faulkner by now was leaning against the wall of his home for support, his drunken legs unable to support him. Even that failed, as he began to slide towards the ground. "Just get me some lumber and a carpenter, and I'll raise a crew."

Robert Faulkner collapsed on the ground. Before Connor could wonder what happened, deafening snores came from the man. The teenager rolled his eyes. This 'ship' better be worth it.

* * *

 **Fun fact: Robert Faulkner is based on Gibbs from Pirates of the Caribbean. Even same voice actor.**


	9. Part I: Training Days

Winter was finally releasing its hold. The thick, impenetrable blanket that once covered the ground was thinning. There were even patches of dead grass in some places. Foliage that had once been frozen over was now thawing, moving to the wind for the first time in months. It told of coming warmth, but it was still cold enough to draw one's breath. However, it didn't seem to bother a particular figure.

Ratonhnhaké:ton was almost on all fours as he crawled through the underbrush, body completely doubled over and knees bent. He held his bow tensely, a readied arrow nocked on the string. The teenager barely made a sound even in the soft snow, gazing through the forest in search of his prize. There!

A flash of movement appeared in his peripheral vision. With supreme reflexes, he turned and aimed in no time flat, releasing the string and letting the arrow fly. Immediately after, a high-pitched squeal escaped the dying raccoon.

Ratonhnhaké:ton felt a small sense of pride and accomplishment in his victory, but quickly suppressed it. There was no celebration in the sacrifice of another. Every creature had their place in life. The forest only gave them as gifts. Not one should ever be wasted.

With that in mind, the young hunter stalked over to the kill, a drawn knife clutched in his hand. After he removed the arrow and confirmed the large rodent's death, he skinned the animal carefully. Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to stay focused on his work, but it was not easy. The events of the last few days repeated vividly in his mind, so he needed to distract himself. More importantly—the manor still needed some supplies and Terry and Godfrey with their wives would need some, too. Not to mention Faulkner and the _Aquila,_ despite the man's persistence that no work could be done until a proper carpenter could be found.

The native didn't have a clue where to start looking for such a man. However, Achilles suggested hiring one from the city, but that didn't sit well with him. Not with the incident still fresh in his mind. The papers were calling it "the Boston Massacre," even though the soldiers simply described it as the "Incident on King Street." Ratonhnhaké:ton saw the former more fitting. He could've stopped it, but he wasn't strong enough. Wasn't fast enough.

The young Assassin apprentice still didn't understand. Why? Why would Selah turn her back against the Brotherhood, just for the Templars? It made no sense. But it did not matter. She was an enemy now. And the next time they met, Ratonhnhaké:ton would be ready.

Returning to his hunt, Rato- _Connor_ stuffed what he could salvage from his kill into his knapsack. Connor. The native was still getting used to the idea. Not only was he in another world, he was another person. No longer was he a boy from the forest, but he was an Assassin apprentice. He was Connor now, but Ratonhnhaké:ton would always live in his heart. The hunter lifted himself and prepared to continue, but something stopped him.

"HHHEEELLLPP! SOMEONE, PLEASE! HHEELLLPP!"

The hunter stopped dead and completely froze. He listened intently for it again. Like he expected, another shout filled with desperation and fear split the air. It was then Connor spun around and sprinted towards the source, completely abandoning his hunt. The call sounded distant, but the sheer volume allowed him to trace it and told him just how much trouble the person was.

It wasn't long before the boy skidded to a halt in front of a cliff. He blinked when he saw nothing, but the screaming was loudly assaulting his ears… coming from above. Connor craned his head up, gasping when he saw a man dangling from the top of the cliff, a rope bound to his legs. He was screaming and flailing desperately, even though it was useless. Even if he got himself free, he would be dead. The man was literally hanging by a thread.

Connor didn't hesitate. He latched onto the rock, using footholds in the cliff face to scale the precipice. He glanced up to see figures standing on the edge. But instead of paying attention to him, the men watched their victim with malicious eyes, laughing at his screams.

It wasn't long before the Assassin apprentice reached the dangling man, who almost didn't notice him. Until the boy had to snatch his arm to keep the limb from whacking him. The man suddenly choked on his scream, staring at Connor like he was a Spirit. The colonist was plump, making the teenager amazed the rope hadn't already snapped. Black hair and a thick, unshaven beard framed his face.

"You—" he stammered.

"Sh," Connor shushed.

He pointed up, where the figures once stood. The man seemed to understand, though his ocean-blue eyes were filled with fear. Knowing time was of the essence, the boy climbed the remainder of the cliff, but was careful not to make noise. He was rewarded when he crawled over the top, not alerting the five men who had their backs turned to him. They wore leather clothing and all wielded muskets, save for a beast of a man that rested his gigantic ax on his shoulder. They were all laughing, pleased with their deed. It filled Connor with anger.

"You are not welcomed in these lands," the Assassin apprentice yelled at them.

Immediately they whirled around, startled. At first there was surprise in their eyes, quickly replaced by wicked sneers.

"Well, well, looks like another sod came to play," an ugly one chuckled.

Connor glared. " _Leave_."

Instead of obeying, the ugly one neared him, clutching his musket. "How about you just fuck yourself, bug. Boss Bsaid we're taking these lands for own now."

Boss? Without warning, the thug lashed out with the butt of his gun. Connor yelped when it collided with his chin, snapping his head back. His body was forced to follow, and his stomach fell into a pit when his heel skidded on the edge of the cliff. The boy swayed to keep his balance, looking in up to see the brigand charging at him again. But this time the Assassin apprentice was ready.

Connor dived under the man's swing, appearing behind the bandit. Connor lashed out with his tomahawk, digging the blade into the man's back. The brigand screamed in pain, but Connor was still able to hear movement behind him.

Acting quickly, the boy ripped out his tomahawk and whirled around, whacking away the bayonet that was intended for his head. Before the attacker could react, Connor planted his heel on his groin, provoking a wail. He then held out his bow and nocked an arrow, aiming it for another man pointing a musket at him. Before the thug had a chance to fire, the native let his arrow fly. The tip buried in the bandit's collarbone, provoking a scream.

A flash of movement came from the corner of the apprentice's eye. Not hesitating, he changed his hold on his bow like a club, whacking the weapon into another thug's head. It wasn't able to subdue the bandit, but it threw him off balance. It was enough to allow Connor to land a brutal kick to the side of the man's knee. There was a scream and a sickening _snap_ as the limb made a disturbing right angle. The Mohawk warrior put the victim out of his misery by planting his own knee to the thug's temple. The man collapsed onto the ground, unconscious.

Connor thought it was going well, until he saw a blur of motion by his side, quickly followed by an explosion of pain from his head. The realization was delayed, but he knew the source. He had forgotten about the brute. It was too late now, as the boy felt his body move on its own and the ground left his feet. There was a sickening feeling of weightlessness and the wind roaring in his ears.

Connor opened his eyes to see his vision filled with white, and then the world turned black.

* * *

The first Connor registered was pain. It started behind his eyes, a dull throb that gradually increased into a steady pound. Then it radiated across his body, pulsing in waves of discomfort. The teenager let out a groan. A metallic taste covered his tongue, making him cough in disgust. He forced his eyes to open, only to be blinded by white light.

The boy groaned again and shut them tight. After several moments, he opened them again, squinting this time. His eyes adjusted to the harsh light to see the sky far above him, but he panicked to see his vision blurred. Instead of seeing the defined shapes of clouds, they mixed into the gray canvas behind them.

Connor gritted his teeth as another wave of pain slammed into his head, accompanied by nauseousness. He didn't have to be fully conscious to know it was a concussion. Shutting his eyes again, he sent the order for his body to move, only to feel pain. The native cursed.

Using all of his willpower, he sent it again. This time his upper body obeyed, rising into a sitting position. Connor blinked when he was greeted with the bottom of the cliff, its shadow looming over him, creating a chill. Wait… what? The Assassin apprentice realized with horror.

He had fallen off the cliff. How was he…? The boy tried to move his limbs, only for them to be sluggish. He looked over and saw why. His body was buried in at several feet of snow, creating an icy prison. No wonder he couldn't move. It was amazing he didn't freeze to death. He must have been out only for a few minutes. Speaking of miracles…

Connor sent a prayer of thanks to the Great Mother. If he had landed anywhere else, he would surely be dead. The bed of snow saved his life. But it came with a consequence. With another batch of will, the Assassin pushed all his discomfort to the back of his mind. Pain only existed if you allowed it to.

The warrior forced his knees to bend, digging into his heels for support. It took him five minutes just to get into a crouch, another to stand. The entire time wave after wave of pain would come, only for the Assassin apprentice to shove it away. He looked up to see the victim from before still dangling, and still conscious. The man finally noticed the boy had awakened.

"Oh, thank heavens!" the man wailed, his voice distant. "I thought you were gone for good. You alright, lad?"

Humiliation rushed through Connor. Here he was, supposed to be saving this man. He was the one whose life was in danger, yet the man was asking _his_ welfare. Even though, Connor waved in assurance, ignoring the effect to do so. "I am fine! Hold on, I get you out of there!"

The man waved his hands. "As if I have a choice."

If scaling the cliff was painstaking before, there were no words to describe it now. How long it took did not help things, either. At last he reached the top, only for his heart to sink. The bandits were gone. All that was left was a burning cart, scarlet flames eating away the lumber, having a black pillar of smoke crawl into the sky. Well, it couldn't be helped now.

Connor made his way to the rope tied around the man's ankles. Using all his might (with as much pain as he could tolerate), he pulled the rope, drawing the victim back to safety. Even that was slow progress, the rope only moving inch by inch. The man was not light by any means. When he reached safety, Connor unsheathed his dagger and cut his bounds.

"Thank you! Thank you!" the man gasped.

"Are you alright?" Connor asked him as he helped the man to his feet.

"I think so. Didn't do much to me aside from a good scare. Blaggards."

"What did they want with you?"

"My purse, which was meager, and then they decided to punish me for their trouble." Then the man saw his burning cart and a look of dismay appeared. "My tools and equipment _were_ worth a king's share to the right man. In any case, I best get on my way. It's a long walk to the nearest inn. I thank you again for your kindness."

Connor cocked an eyebrow. "Have you no home?"

"Ah, well, I _was_ proud resident of Boston until recently, but I'm not a support of His Majesty. I was forced out of my woodshop and my home by Loyalists."

Wait, woodshop? Excitement built up in Connor's chest.

"So you are a carpenter?" the boy asked. Achilles said something about visiting a woodshop in Boston to find a carpenter. What was the man's name, again?

"Yes, actually. Oh, where are my manners? The name is Lance."

Lance! That was it! Connor accepted the man's hand. The gesture still felt foreign to him, but now he was too relieved to care. Now he didn't have to bother to face the intimidating streets of Boston, with the man he was searching for right here.

"My name is Connor," the boy introduced. "Actually, I am in need of your services and there are plenty around here that could use them as well. The valley should suit well, if you are looking for somewhere to settle."

"Is that right?" Lance laughed. "I may look into that."

* * *

"You seem to have an eventful day," Achilles commented as Connor trudged through the front door, only to trip on a loose floorboard.

Was he limping that bad? No wonder Lance kept fussing over him. He had just come from the docks, speaking to Faulkner, after visiting Terry and Godfrey's mill. The men agreed to start building a home for Lance right away. But since it would take a few weeks until completion, they offered Lance a place to stay. Once that matter was settled, they met with Faulkner to discuss repairs on the _Aquila_. And now, all Connor wanted was to lie down.

"I have found Lance," the boy said simply, his voice sounding more strained than he intended.

"Oh? Is that so? And where was he?" Achilles asked.

"On a cliff on the edge of the valley. He was being harassed by a group of bandits." A pause. "They said something about a boss…"

Achilles closed his eyes and hummed. Connor glared.

"They were Templars, were they not?" the boy demanded. "So were the men I fought when I first came here. Why? Why are the Templars after you?"

Connor flinched when the old man suddenly laughed, but it was hollow and humorless.

"Why?" Achilles echoed. "To taunt me, of course. My own land isn't my own anymore. They wish to keep me from building a new Brotherhood, but as if that would do any good now."

"So you just let them?"

"Does it look I can do anything, boy?"

"Then _I will_ rid of them."

Achilles snorted. "Oh? And what happened to the Templars?"

"…They fled."

"Because?"

"…Because I fell off the cliff."

Achilles shook his head with a sigh. "So I prove my point. Go out of your way for others, and you get in over your head."

The statement made the teenager squint in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"You can't save everyone in the world, boy, so I wouldn't get too comfortable with heroics. You saved Lance, but almost at the cost of your life."

"It does not mean I cannot try to help others."

"Which is a good thing, but it was just a mere warning."

Achilles gave a dismissive hand, like he wanted to end the conversation. Connor stared at him in shock that he would say such a thing.

"An Assassin's duty is to protect the people, is it not?" Connor challenged.

"It is. And to stop the Templars, since you so eagerly desire to. But you'll be having a hard time doing that without these."

Achilles placed a hand on a large, wooden box on the table. He pushed it slightly towards Connor's direction. When the teenager only stared, the old man nodded.

"Go on, before I change my mind," he murmured.

Taking that as permission, Connor picked the box and carefully lifted the lid. He gasped.

Inside were two leather bracers, faded from age but still sturdy. A metal contraption was clipped to its underside of each, a sharp, glinting blade nestled within. Achilles had told him about these. The hidden blades of an Assassin. Connor couldn't help but smile.

"Th-thank you," he grinned.

"Don't thank me yet," Achilles retorted. "They won't be any good to you if you don't know how to use them properly." The old man leaned on his cane and stared at his apprentice with seriousness. "Now, your official training begins."

* * *

So Connor trained. In running. In climbing. In fighting. In stealth. The young warrior quickly found out the training from his village was _nothing_ like the ways of the Assassins. As a warrior of his people, he was taught to protect his land no matter the cost. To hunt and kill and respect the gifts offered by the Great Mother. There was no such thing to the Assassins.

Steal without being noticed. Move without being seen. Kill without being caught. And instead of hunting animals, he was to hunt _humans_. A concept so familiar, yet so foreign.

And for every lesson that concerned the body, there were that concerned the mind. Language. Philosophy. Logic. Arts. Economy. Politics. Things that were necessary tools if I were ever to understand the coatmen's society. However, Achilles taught most often of the Assassins and Templars.

The freedom, individuality, and progression of the Assassins, while the Templars desired order, discipline, and power. Connor learned of each order: their structures, origins, and purpose. Centuries of history that was lost to the rest of the world. Even now, the people couldn't be blinder to the truth. Achilles explained to the Templars, with Haytham as their head, had complete control over the Colonies. Siding with the British, they had assets in the military and in politics and even in the economy of the colonists. They had dug in their roots, and the only way to defeat them, was to dig them out.

Connor did not only spend his time with Achilles, but with Faulkner as well. Now that they had attained everything they need, the sailor wanted to start repairs right away. Little did Connor know that it would take much more work than he thought, and much more time.

It appears years sitting in the harbor did the _Aquila_ no good. Not only had have the hull had rotted, but leaks in the wood had her sink to the bottom, only the bow visible. To make matters worse, the currents had pushed sand into her hull. Connor was convinced it was a lost cause, but Faulkner was still insistent she could be saved. But the only way to do that, was by getting "her" _out_ of the harbor. And that made the worst days of Connor's life.

He spent several days diving in and out of the ocean, scouring the shipwreck for any salvageable materials or anything that could be removed. To reduce the weight of the great ship, supposedly. The boy had come up with dozens and dozens of forgotten trinkets and piles of rotting wood, along with objects too decayed to recognize. Meanwhile, Faulkner had gathered old friends and willing workmen from around the frontier and Boston to create an able crew.

When both tasks were complete, they focused on bringing her ashore. They tied dozens of ropes to the _Aquila_ , anywhere that was strong enough to take the force that would be exerted on her. Once done, _all_ the men took the ropes, some lines being held by multiple sailors. Faulkner would usually stand aside, shouting orders. He was still too drunk to be useful, anyway. Connor dug his heels in the sand and tightened his grip on the tough material, bracing for Faulkner's shout.

"Heave!" the man bellowed.

"Ho!" the sailors replied.

Connor's muscles strained as he pulled with all his might, calling upon all his will and strength.

"Heave! Ho!"

It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough. Connor could hear the groaning protests from the _Aquila_ , over the sounds of growling men. From his poor angle, the boy didn't see the boat—er, ship—move at all. There was five straight minutes until suddenly the Eagle budged with a cry. It was an inch. Just an inch, but it was something. Then another. And another. Another. But it wasn't enough. They spent the next few days like this, only moving the _Aquila_ by inches at a time, when she was still yards away from the shore. It was too slow and already men were collapsing from exhaustion.

Connor tried to tell Achilles of their dilemma, but the old man said only time and patience would show progress. And instead of allowing the boy to return to the docks, he continued his training.

"Now then, I ought to teach toy the Leap of Faith, even though I can no longer perform it myself," Achilles rumbled.

"Leap of what?" Connor echoed.

"Faith, boy. The only master the Assassins obey. Only ones willing to place themselves in its hands can call themselves true members of the Brotherhood."

The native still didn't understand, but if it increased his strength, then he would not protest.

"How do we proceed?" he asked.

He regretted his choice. It had to be a joke. It had to be. The Assassin apprentice stood on the roof of the stables, looking over a pile of fresh hay. Achilles stood nearby. So he was jumping from the roof… to land in a pile of hay. For some reason, Connor expected more out of Assassin training.

"This is ridiculous," the teenager grumbled.

"You must start somewhere," Achilles replied. "This is how we trained the young ones. And considering you've yet learned real skill, I decided we start with this. Leap into the air and land on your back. And you're not jumping," the old man added, like he read the boy's mind. Or just saw him rolling his eyes. "You're surrendering to faith. Now jump!"

"But you just—"

Achilles's glare told there would be no argument. Sighing, Connor spread out his arms like he had been instructed. Legs straight, he jumped off the roof. He tried to flip mid air, but he had to roll into a ball to do so, breaking his form and landing in an awkward heap. Achilles shook his head.

"Again," he ordered.

So Connor did it again and again and again. The first several times he couldn't help to break form, which just aggravated Achilles. Eventually he _was_ able to keep his arms spread while flipping, only to land lopsided. It lasted for hours and it only ended with Connor dizzy and sore. He had improved he knew, but Achilles was still not satisfied.

The teenager landed into the hay, what was now a layer of straw across the ground due his repeated landings. He groaned from the impact, still not fully healed from his last fall, but he quickly silenced it. He knew this would not be easy. The native squirmed to rise again, but he happened to look at the direction of the horses. Suddenly Connor had a brilliant idea.

The boy went to the docks the next day and told Faulkner his plan. The sailor approved. That afternoon, robes were tied to four horses, each led by a man. This included Connor, who led a pinto gelding.

"Heave!" Faulkner called.

"Ho!" Connor and the sailors replied.

The boy urged the gelding to step forward. The beast was as unhappy as the humans to do such work, but he obeyed, just as Achilles promised. The _Aquila_ moved over a foot that day. The Eagle reached the shore within a month.

In the spare time that Connor had, he would spend working on the house. The first order of business was to repair the roof. As the snow melted, water would slip through the cracks and fall into the interior of the home. He used the wood from the loggers to replace the entire roof, which took months to complete. More than once, Achilles would rush out in a fit from his persistent banging. How else was he supposed to fix his home?

Even when the roof was completed, his work was only halfway done. Now he had to work on the interior. Thankfully Achilles was somewhat helpful with that. But even that chore was slow, between his lessons, his training, and assisting Faulkner with the _Aquila_. His schedule was without a moment's rest. The only sleep he would attain was when he passed out in random places—the stables, the docks, the furniture around the house. He once awoke in a tree.

Still, Connor felt himself improving. Each day he became stronger, faster, smarter. As the months passed, he found himself growing larger and larger, outgrowing his clothes and having to purchase new ones. The once lean muscles the hid under his skin now bulged, and his thin shoulder doubled in broadness. His hair grew enough he had to pull it back in a tie. Despite all his progress, there were still things he lacked. The Leap of Faith, most of all.

Achilles would only shake his head and growl, commenting, "Too sloppy. You're too hesitant. Too distracted. Let go. Let it come naturally. Allow yourself to surrender to Fate."

However hours and hours of practice, the only thing Connor could "surrender" was the ability to move. He failed to understand. Then finally, he had an idea.

It was then the Assassin apprentice stood at the top of the cliff overlooking the harbor. The bright sunlight reflected off the water to make it seem like there were diamonds, especially was the wind created ripples across its surface. The pounding on wood echoed up from the docks as the _Aquila_ 's restoration continued. Connor spread his arms and sighed. Even from here, he could Faulkner's desperate screams.

"By Neptune's trident, what the bloody hell are you doin' up there! Get down, you lobcock!"

Connor ignored him and Leaped.

For a solid moment, it felt like he was flying. He could soar across the skies as an eagle, just like the vision with the Spirit. The moment stretched to eternity and Connor felt invincible. He could be anything, do anything. Even Fate could not touch him. In its place was freedom, coursing through his veins until it filled his entire soul.

The moment ended as gravity finally captured him. Instead of protesting, the warrior submitted to it and dove for the water far below him. The wind roared in his ears, sharp and loud like a cry of an eagle. He felt completely weightless, like nothing could touch him.

Only the ocean could, as the water welcomed him in its sweet embrace. The boy felt all the air leave his lungs, but he wasn't afraid. Instead he was calm as he floated underneath the surface. He stayed there suspended for several moments before finally breaching the surface, taking a gulp of refreshing air.

As he bobbed in the water, he could hear the furious shouts of Faulkner, more obscene than threatening. The boy felt a pair of eyes watching him, provoking him to look up. There, at the very top of the cliff, was Achilles. Connor smiled.

He had done it.

And now, he learned the true meaning of freedom.


	10. Part I: Aquila Unchained

The _Aquila_ shone under the brilliant sun. The dull, rotting wood that had made her hull was replaced by light, sturdy lumber. A fresh layer of paint gleamed: deep blue of the ocean and glaring white. New sails hung from the reconstructed masts, rigging crisscrossing them with nets attached to the deck, allowing sailors to the higher levels. Robert Faulkner stood proudly on the deck, hands on his hips.

His appearance had improved since the first time Connor met him. His greasy hair was washed and tied, though his beard was still untouched. The glazed eyes were gone while he stood and walked straight. As repairs on the _Aquila_ progressed, Faulkner drank less, instead occupying his time tending to the project. Still, Connor was aware a bottle was never too far away, and the dazed look was there more often than not.

"Come aboard and feast your eyes, boy!" Faulkner invited, spreading his arms. The teenager stepped onto the ramp to join him, only for the sailor to make dismayed yelp. "No, no, no, no! Not the left foot! Never the left foot! Horrible luck. Step with your right foot first."

Connor rolled his eyes. He would never understand colonist society—or better yet, Faulkner.

Still, Connor obeyed the sailor's order and joined him on deck. He looked around the ship, marveling its transformation. He remembered the hours he spent repairing it, all the while _convinced_ it was a foolish cause. Apparently he was wrong.

"She is… good," Connor praised.

Faulkner nodded in agreement. "Aye. Weatherly and sleek. She'll fetch twelve knots in a stiff gale, ne'er a ship from here to Singapore can outrun her on her best day. Wha'dya say we take her out and show you what she can do first hand?"

Connor cocked an eyebrow. "And where will we sail?"

"As it happens, she still needs guns and the officers to command them. We'll launch straight away."

Connor nodded in agreement, but nervousness knotted his stomach. He was not really eager to sail. He was fine navigating canoes across the lake in his tribe's valley, but a ship as large as this was another story. Especially the concept Faulkner told him that there would be no land in sight once they reached the ocean. Such a large expanse of water unnerved him. How could there be such a thing? A stretch of water larger than an entire country? Faulkner seemed to sense his anxiousness. He slapped the boy's arm in comfort.

"Don't worry, lad," the man assured. "I'll make sure you sprout good sea legs. Now, let's get the _Aquila_ where she needs to be!"

Then in the first time in five years, the Eagle sailed the open sea.

* * *

The sun shone brilliantly, reflecting off the ocean's calm waters. Not a single cloud was in the sky, having a blue canvas stretch in all directions. Connor saw no other color for a week and a half, until the lush green and pale brown of Martha's Vineyard.

Sharp rocks surrounded the island, acting as a clear warning to stay away. There were even the shells of ships trapped in their jaws, sending chills down any sailor's spine. Still, ships of all sizes crowded the waters around them, uncaring to the danger. They crowded the harbor, with the _Aquila_ among them, the frigate already docked and tied.

Aside from the number of ships, the island didn't seem all that impressive. From what he could see from the ocean, he only saw barren hills and isolated settlements, with only glimpses of a guarding forest beyond. He wasn't able to observe much else, as Faulkner headed straight to the local tavern as soon as they stepped off the _Aquila_.

Connor wasn't surprised to see it crammed with sailors, all of them chugging down their drinks as eagerly as Faulkner with his rum. Since it was now late summer, no fires burned, but Connor still felt suffocated from the heat. Faulkner didn't seem to mind at all, already greeting a woman carrying a tray of drinks.

"Oh, hullo, Miss Many," he greeted. "You're looking every bit of ravishing as I remember."

Connor didn't know what he meant, but he wouldn't describe the woman as beautiful. She may have been, in her younger years. Her gray hair was tied in a messy bun, exposing her wrinkled face. Her lips were tugged in a stern frown and her brown eyes were piercing. She wore a modest dress, the same shade as the hills outside. The woman glared at Faulkner and snorted.

"After all these years you sail all the way to the Vineyard to pay me compliments?" she demanded, sarcasm filling her words. Or Connor suspected it was sarcasm. Honestly he wasn't sure.

Either way, her words were effective. Faulkner shifted his weight and showed a guilty look.

"We're looking for David and Richard Clutterbuck," he admitted.

"Nice to see you, too," Amanda huffed. That was certainly sarcasm.

Nonetheless, she jerked in head towards a pair of men. They sat a table against the walls, hunched over and sipping on tankards. Both of them wore uniforms of tan trousers and a purplish-blue coat, but that's where the similarities ended. One had brown hair and untrimmed beard with dark eyes. The other was completely bald and had scars across his face, glaring at Faulkner with cold brown eyes.

"Robert Faulkner," he spat. "Where the hell have you been?"

Despite the tension radiating off the men, Faulkner easily sat down next to them and slumped in his chair.

"Sorry for leavin' like I did, lads," he apologized, sounding sincere. "But where I was going, no one could know." Connor knew he meant the Assassins when he said that. Even though the brothers exchanged skeptical glances, Faulkner went on to business. "You two working much?"

"Nah," the bearded one answered. "Between contracts at the moment."

"Well, we're looking for gunnery officers. What would you two say about working with me again?"

Connor held his breath as the brothers exchanged hard, serious glances. The few seconds of silence seemed to stretch for eternity. Then suddenly the bearded one grinned.

"We'd be for gettin' into a few more scraps," he said. His brother chuckled in agreement.

Connor sighed in relief while Faulkner grinned in accomplishment.

"Good show!" he praised. "The _Aquila_ is a fine vessel. We're fitting all the guns as we speak."

Suddenly the bald one looked over Connor's shoulder. "Looks like you two are about to catch a beatin'."

Connor stared confused, until a harsh, gruff voice barked behind him.

" _Bobby Faulkner_."

"Oh, Hell," Faulkner groaned.

A pair of men now stood in front of Connor. One was a plump man with fake, white hair. What was it called? A powdered wig? The man wore polished brown shoes with socks that came up to his knee and were even over his black trousers. A brown coat wrapped around his body and a green waistcoat covered his torso.

The other wore a blue and red coat with gold embroidery that opened to a white undershirt. A black bicorn hat rested on his head, a crimson feather sticking from it. He wore black trousers and black boots, which almost came to up his calves. This man looked young, but his face was red and peeling from constant sun exposure. Black, untrimmed hair—not long enough to be tied back—fell from his hat and his icy blue eyes were narrowed.

Connor's heart stopped as he recognized both men. He had seen their faces almost every day for the past three years—even though it was never a personal meeting. Until now. Benjamin Church and Nicholas Biddle. Master Templars.

"So you've turned to wet-nursing?" Biddle taunted Faulkner. "Good you finally realized you're a shite sailor."

Faulkner had risen during the men's arrival. He put his hand on Connor's shoulder, who was already shaking with anger.

"Hey, now, Biddle," Faulkner warned, trying to cool the waters. "You don't want to be doin' that."

"And why is that?" the man, Biddle, sneered.

The Templar suddenly shoved Connor away let he was nothing more than a pest. It took the Assassin apprentice a lot of willpower not to grab his tomahawk. Biddle towered over Faulkner, but the sailor stood his ground, glaring right back at him. During the exchange, the Clutterbuck brothers rose from their seat, muscles tense.

"Hey, Biddle, wasn't there something about an Indian boy at the Incident? On King Street?" Church suddenly spoke up, glaring at Connor.

Biddle looked over to Connor and his eyes widened. "That's right. So you're the one that made Selah cry." He took a threatening step forward and his eyes narrowed in a glare, his tone darkening. "We don't much appreciate that, boy."

Connor refused to move, glaring at the man and his accusations. Made Selah cry? What was he talking about?

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Amanda yelled, barging herself between Faulkner and Biddle, shoving them apart. "Not in here, gentlemen. Better still, not at all. Bobby, take your friends and get out!"

She pointed at the door with her thumb, glaring at Faulkner. The sailor didn't have to be told twice.

"Let's go, boys," he called. "Our guns ought to be ready."

Connor didn't move, too busy having a glaring contest with Biddle. It was interrupted when Faulkner grabbed the boy, shoving him towards the door. Still, he didn't miss that cold, arrogant smirk on the Templar's lips.

Church watched the boy go as well, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He could be a thorn if not handled properly. He turned to see black-clad figure, slouched in the shadows of the tavern. Church nodded, and the figure slipped away.

* * *

Connor watched as the cannons were put into place on the _Aquila_ 's deck, the long iron barrels pointed towards the sea, waiting to destroy any threat. David Clutterbuck, who was apparently the bald one, was shouting orders while his brother, Richard, was seeing the new weapons were secure. Satisfied everything seemed to be going well, he turned around and joined Faulkner at the wheel.

The sailor was standing next the wheel, even though he still had his hands on it to keep the _Aquila_ straight. Knowing what the man was expecting of him, Connor took the wheel from him. The smooth wood under his calloused hands felt exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. He was in control of a massive beast that had temperaments, easily swayed by the wind or currents, and over two dozen lives depending on his decisions. At the same time, from here he could feel every motion of the ocean and that massive beast was willing to obey him with a simple turn of a wheel. Connor could feel an instinct within him as he sailed, as if it was in his blood. Faulkner cut him from his thoughts.

"So do you mind telling me what the bloody hell was that about?" the man demanded. It took the boy a few moments to realize the sailor was talking about what happened in the tavern.

"Those men were Templars," Connor explained.

Faulkner snapped his head back to the boy, eyes widened. "What? Nicholas Biddle a Templar?"

"Do you know him?"

"He's a nobody. Sails before the mast—midshipman for the Crown."

Connor tightened his grip on the wheel. He had a feeling that he had not seen the last of Biddle. And his encounter had left him rattled. He stood a matter of _inches_ from the men that had been responsible for the death of his mother. Church had changed, but Connor easily recognized him as one of the men that attacked him as a child. And Biddle was guilty by affiliation. Furthermore, they could have been a lead to Selah… or more importantly, Charles Lee. But he had missed his opportunity. Still, his stomach knotted and he felt on edge, as if the threat was not over. Connor decided to rid of thoughts by distracting himself.

"Are the guns ready?" he asked.

"Aye, but we won't get in over our heads," Faulkner replied, nodding. "We'll find a suitable target and show you how they work. We've fitted her with a modest amount of guns, so she should do nicely."

Connor grinned. "Then shall we give it a go?"

* * *

Whoops and cheers filled the _Aquila_ 's deck as the British frigate exploded in flames, the scarlet tower rising into the sky. Connor couldn't help but feel of a surge of energy course through him at the sight. Yes, this couldn't have come more natural to him.

"Ne'er gets old!" Richard laughed.

"Not bad for a spud, cap'n," David praised.

Faulkner was laughing with joy, throwing his head back. "You are a fast learner."

"Provided something interests me," Connor replied, grinning.

"Ah… getting a taste for the open sea are we? We'll make you a jar tar out of you yet. Now let's go home before the old man takes my hide for keeping you away."

Connor nodded, feeling a stab of guilt. He completely forgot about informing Achilles about his departure. Faulkner's hide wasn't the only one in danger. The young boy ordered to raise anchor and unfurl the sails. Immediately the _Aquila_ flew with the wind towards open sea. The sun was setting, having fiery colors burn across the sky and turning the ocean black. The Eagle was just about to slip out of the harbor when suddenly the clanging of a bell filled the air accompanied by a shout.

"Gunboats!" Richard screamed.

Connor looked to the starboard side of the ship to see three small boats, not even a half of the _Aquila's_ size. Still, he easily saw the red-coated man scurrying around their decks with the boats' guns pointed towards them. Before he could question their intentions, a sharp clap filled the air. Connor could hear the cannonballs whizz through the air, narrowly missing the _Aquila_ and landing in the water.

"Why are they shooting at us?!" Connor cried, startled. They hadn't even done anything! Was it custom for boats to randomly shoot at each other?

"Destroying property of the Crown, disturbing the King's peace—take your pick," Faulkner snapped.

"What do we do?"

"Naught else to fight back! Sink the bastards!"

Connor narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip before turning hard starboard. The Eagle flew into battle, talons extended.

* * *

The gunboats sunk rather quickly. Shay Cormac expected that. It was the _Aquila_ , after all. As Ghost of the North Seas, she was nearly impossible to find… and even harder to corner. But when she was, the Eagle screeched and slashed her talons to gain her freedom. Shay lost a lot of good ships tracking that nuisance. And he thought that day would be the last he saw her. Apparently not.

Shay crossed his arms as he watched the sea battle from his perch on the hill. His frigates were engaging the brig, circling around her like a pair of wolves stalking a prey. But that prey fought back, as the _Aquila_ 's deck was constantly filled with smoke with flashes of light. Already a crowd was gathering on shore as locals were drawn by the commotion.

It was a pity, really, that Shay had to waste his frigates. They weren't meant for direct combat, instead Shay had them scout for the rest of the fleet or make cargo runs. However, that didn't mean they weren't capable, and they were the only ones available in the Vineyard.

Still, it was absurd, that Faulkner would show his face here after years of hiding. The Templar captain was amazed the _Aquila_ made an appearance as well. Maybe she really was a ghost…

"The _Atalante_ 's hull just breached!" Gist suddenly reported. The quartermaster was watching the battle through a spyglass, occasionally reporting if he saw something Shay couldn't see.

Sure enough, the Irishman narrowed his eyes to see the _Atalante_ slowly sink into the black waters, her crew jumping over board. That left the _Téméraire_ and the _Aquila._

"Looks like Faulkner hasn't lost his touch," Shay muttered. "For a man stubborn not to be a captain, he sure made hell of a good one."

"He's not the captain," Gist reported.

"What?"

At his captain's glare, Gist handed the spyglass to him. Shay brought it to his eye and zoomed in on the _Aquila_ 's wheel.

"Well, I'll be damned…"

* * *

"Brace!" Connor screamed.

Immediately everyone hit the deck and Connor covered his head. Cannonballs whizzed through the air, only to be followed by horrid sounds of impact as they buried into the _Aquila_ 's hull. The boy gritted his teeth. The Eagle was not in the best shape.

Whoever was not manning the guns or the riggings was frantically making repairs as splintered wood covered the deck. Already two guns had been destroyed. It was a miracle there wasn't a hole in the hull yet. When the terrifying sound of artillery disappeared, Connor leaped back to his feet, pointing towards the enemy ship.

"Return fire!" he roared.

Immediately a volley of ammunition exploded from the _Aquila_ 's deck, returning her earlier treatment to the frigate. _Téméraire_ , according to the name painted on the stern.

"We're sailing into the wind, lad!" Faulkner warned.

Connor already knew, as he felt the resistance in the _Aquila_ 's movements. _Téméraire_ was sailing in the opposite direction, with the wind. She was already turning for another broadside attack. The Eagle was caged. But Connor would not allow it. He waited until David gave a scream of warning.

"She's about to fire!" he wailed. Without hesitation, Connor veered hard to port, just narrowly avoiding the onslaught. He swore he could hear the frustrated groans from the _Téméraire_.

"Well done, boy!" Faulkner praised.

"It is not over yet," Connor dismissed.

But the enemy frigate fell right for his trap. Instead of turning towards open sea, Connor turned _towards_ land. Desperate to destroy the Eagle, the frigate followed, only for the landscape to betray her. She was forced to turn, while the _Aquila_ still had room in the harbor. But instead of turning with the wind, _Téméraire_ turned _against_ it. All the while the _Aquila_ turned to face her, the wind on her side. The tables had turned, just like Connor planned. He turned to broadside the trapped frigate, all the avoiding the enemy's range.

" _Open fire_!"

All the remaining guns fired onto the _Téméraire_ , ripping her apart. Including tearing open the hull to reveal the gunpowder storage. Perfect.

"Swivel guns, take aim!" he ordered. Immediately the men manning the miniature cannons saw the weakness and lined up the shot. "FIRE!"

The swivel guns obeyed with a sharp _crack_. Immediately flames swallowed the _Téméraire_ , the screams of her crew echoing across the waves. Already its bow was sinking into the water, at a much faster rate than the _Atalante_. Survivors of the ship were jumping overboard, desperate to save themselves. Connor grinned as the crew exploded in cheer of victory.

"Not bad for your first voyage, eh, boy?" Faulkner laughed. "Now we best be getting back."

The young captain nodded in agreement, finally turning for open sea. As the _Aquila_ sailed away, darkness fell and rain poured from the skies, throwing a mist in the air. The Ghost of the North Seas disappeared into the night.

* * *

Connor barged into the front door of the manor, sweat covering his skin from his sprint from the docks. He prayed he wasn't too late, but in reality, it didn't matter.

"Three weeks and not even a goodbye before you left," Achilles brooded.

He greeted Connor in the foyer, like he had stood sentry there ever since the boy left. Without waiting for a reply, the man turned away. Connor was filled with guilt. Achilles had taken him in and trained him, and he repaid the old man by completely abandoning him. Even the Clan Mother would not approve of such behavior.

"I am sorry…" he said slowly.

Instead of accepting his apology, the former mentor looked over his shoulder at him. "Well? What are you waiting for?"

Connor blinked that he dropped the subject so quickly, expecting to be reprimanded. But he did not dare question it, instead obediently following the old man to the basement. Connor understood that Achilles intended another lesson. He still had a long way to go, if he was going to be a true Assassin.

The boy neared the robes in the center of the room. Despite Achilles constant jabs that it was off limits, he couldn't help but place his hand on the cloth, feeling the rough fibers beneath his skin. What it would be like to wear them…

"But them on," a voice commanded.

Connor whirled around to face Achilles, trying to process the words. Did he hear that correctly? When he stared at the former mentor with disbelief, the man only nodded in permission, a smirk on his lips. For the first time in a very long time, Connor truly smiled.

Achilles left to go back upstairs and Connor changed his attire. He was amazed the robes fit perfectly, even with his broad form. Not surprisingly, they were stiff after not being used in years. It would take a little while to break them in. The Mohawk warrior rolled his shoulders, adjusting the clothing.

Wearing the robes felt like nothing he experienced before, filling with his veins with a sensation not even the _Aquila_ gave him. Or even when he jumped off the cliff, all those months ago. He was no longer a warrior that fought just to defend his people. He fought to defend _all_ people—to be their guardian of freedom. He was an Assassin.

"Once upon a time, we had a ceremony on such occasions," Achilles explained as the boy left the darkness of the basement, presenting his new attire. "But I think it will be silly with just the two of us." The old man leaned on his cane as he observed his apprentice. "You've your tools and training. Your target and goals. And now you have your title. Welcome to the Brotherhood, Connor."

* * *

 **And Connor finally becomes an Assassin! I didn't expect it to take this long, and we're not even in the thick of the story yet. I wanted to take advantage of writing AC3 by expanding scenes, but I will admit I've been a horrible fanfiction writer and been sticking to the plot like glue. That said, I plan to diverge from canon as the story goes on and try different takes on scenes. I know you guys aren't here just to read an AC3 novelization. I hope you guys like what I have in store!**

 **Also, some naval combat trivia. As briefly explained, frigates during this time period weren't used for combat, though they were capable. It was actually considered bad etiquette to fire upon one. Instead, they were used for a variety of roles, including scouting, patrol, carrying dignitaries, etc. An interesting role they had that in large-scale engagements, they were placed throughout the battle to repeat signals from the flagship, which may not be seen by other ships in heavy combat. Ships that** _ **were**_ **used in combat were brigs (such as the Aquila) and ships of the line, which included a variety of ships, including the common "74" and Man O' War. And of course there's others but I thought that'll fill your curiosity for now.**


	11. Part II: A Call For Help

Connor leaned on his knees, panting. The dummy before him wore battle scars from his tomahawk. Several slashes cut the sack, having straws of hay spill out onto the floor. The Assassin's hands were already sore from delivering brutal punches. He stepped back, wiping the sweat from the brow. Over his ragged breathing, he could hear the creak of the staircase behind him. Achilles.

"Connor, spare a moment?" the mentor interrupted.

The apprentice turned to face him, willing to take a break from his grueling training. "Of course."

The warrior blinked when he noticed what was in Achilles's hand. It was a long rope, tied in a bundle. The old man had some of it loosened, holding it out between his hands. Connor eyed the blade tied at the end of the rope, sharp and gleaming. He noticed with curiosity the end was barbed, like a fish hook.

"Have a look," Achilles presented. Connor took the rope from him, observing the blade curiously.

"What is it?" he asked. The blade was light, unrestricting. To test its weight, the Assassin began twirling the end, going faster and faster.

"A _sheng biao_ ," Achilles explained as he did so, "or rope dart, if you prefer. One of the many inventions given to us by Shao Jun to—"

His sentence was cut off as suddenly the rope slipped out of Connor's hand. The tip of the blade missed Achilles by an inch, burying itself in the wooden post next to him. The teenager froze in shock while the old man glanced at the misfired weapon. The mentor sighed, glaring at boy.

Connor gulped and quickly apologized, cheeks hot with embarrassment. "Sorry…"

Achilles merely shook his head. "We'll have to work on this," he grumbled.

Connor nodded in agreement. Suddenly a distant knock from the front door interrupted them. The two exchanged glances. They weren't expecting company.

Taking his new tomahawk—made of polished wood and a metal blade in the shape of the Assassin symbol—Connor trotted up the stairs ahead of Achilles. After the last encounters with "visitors," the teenager wasn't too keen on meeting unexpected guests. Muscles tensed, he cautiously neared the front door and slowly opened it. Connor gasped.

"Kanen'tó:kon?"

His childhood friend stood in front of him, completely transformed. The boy was once short with baby fat, but now he was as tall as Connor and just as fit. His shoulders were broad and his limbs were thick with muscles. His face was chiseled and a stern, solemn frown was on his lips. His raven hair reached his hips, tied in two braids intertwined with feathers. His attire didn't look like it came from his people. He wore a bone necklace and tribal symbols, but the clothing wasn't deerskin and was dyed with colors the village did not have. Clothes traded with the British?

"Yes, my friend," Kanen'tó:kon greeted, but there was no warmth. Connor was surprised that he was speaking in English. Not as fluent as the Assassin, though, whom had spent the last four years learning the language.

The teenager's skin crawled under his heavy robes. There was no reason for Kanen'tó:kon to be here. Unless…

"What brings you here?" Connor asked, speaking in English for Achilles's sake, who was limping towards them. "Is the village alright?"

"For now," Kanen'tó:kon reported, his voice solemn.

"What do you mean? What happened?"

His friend's eyes hardened. "Men came, claiming we had to leave. They said that the land was being sold and that the Confederacy had consented. We sent an envoy, but they would not listen."

It felt like a bag full of bricks had slammed into Connor's stomach. It took him a full second to process the words. What? How could such a thing happen? Rage and panic filled Connor's veins. They had no right to force his people away! The Kanien'kehá:ka had lived in the valley for generations! Sold? The land was not something that could be owned!

"You must refuse!" the native insisted.

"We cannot oppose the sachem," Kanen'tó:kon retorted, shaking his head. "But you are right as well. We cannot give up our home."

Connor's hands balled into fists. He had spent three years training under Achilles without a thought of his people. When he left to defend them, he was gone when they needed him the most. This would not have happened otherwise. He could have done something! But now he would make up for it.

"Do you know who is responsible?" the Assassin asked.

Kanen'tó:kon's eyes narrowed. "He is called William Johnson."

"…Where is he?"

"In Boston making preparations for the sale."

" _Sale_? This is _theft_!"

Now there would be no question. Gone were the days of training and learning how to become an Assassin. The Brotherhood was alive, and Connor would do everything in his power to tell the Templars so. And he would start by finding and killing William Johnson.

Achilles seemed to read his mind. "Seek out Sam Adams in Boston. He'll be able to help. Take care, Connor, these men are powerful."

The native exchanged glances with his friend. Kanen'tó:kon nodded and handed an iron hatchet to Connor. The Assassin's grip tightened.

"I made a promise to my people," he snarled. "And I intend keep it."

Without warning, he whirled around and with all his strength, he buried the stone blade into the buttress next to him. He didn't consider the time he spent an entire day furnishing it.

"What have you done?!" Achilles wailed. It looked like instead of burying the ax in his house, Connor buried the weapon in his heart.

"When my people go to war, a hatchet is buried into a post to signify its start," Connor explained. "When the war has ended, the hatchet is removed."

"You could have used a tree!"

Their argument was cut off as a clap of thunder echoed from the forest. Except the sky was perfectly clear. The trio whirled around at the sound. Connor narrowed his eyes as he saw a flock of birds flying from the trees. His hairs stood on end. Something was wrong.

"Kanen'tó:kon, come with me," he ordered. His friend nodded. They prepared to leave, but Achilles's voice stopped him.

"Use the rope dart if you can," he advised. "Best to get familiar with it."

Connor nodded and the two Mohawk warriors headed into the woods.

* * *

They hadn't wandered far when they heard shouts of pain.

"Bloody hell!" a voice cursed. It sounded like a female's. "Someone! Help me!"

Connor and Kanen'tó:kon exchanged glances. It was only around the next bend they found the source.

It was in fact a woman, but not like any Connor had seen. She wore brown trousers and a sage green coat. She wore leather boots longer than the Assassin's moccasins, faded from use. The woman's dark brown hair was tied in a bun and shiny from sweat. Her brown eyes were dark and piercing, despite that they were filled with pain.

She was leaning against a tree, blood staining the ground beneath her. Her trousers were torn, exposing a nasty gash on her thigh, red liquid oozing out of it. The woman was trying to shift in order to stand, but every time she moved her injured leg, she yelped in pain.

"Are you alright?" Connor asked gently as the duo neared her.

"What do you think?" the woman snapped, glaring at him.

Kanen'tó:kon cocked an eyebrow towards Connor's direction while the boy swallowed his embarrassment. Right, stupid question. The Assassin crouched down to the woman's level while Kanen'tó:kon remained standing, arms crossed.

"How did this happen?" Kanen'tó:kon asked.

"Poachers in the woods," the woman hissed with venom. "I asked them to leave—" She gestured to her gruesome wound. "—this was their answer."

Connor was gingerly inspecting it, trying to turn her leg. The woman hissed in pain and the teenager quickly apologized. The wound looked worse than it was: it was only flesh and wasn't very deep. Still, it was susceptible to infection. She needed treatment.

"We need to get that wound looked at," he decided. "Kanen'tó:kon, take her back to the house."

His friend nodded, uncrossing his arms to take his place beside the injured woman.

"What about the men who did this?" she asked.

"I will take care of them."

The woman blinked in surprise, but didn't protest. She allowed Kanen'tó:kon to wrap her arm around his neck and scoop her up, carefully avoiding the gash on her leg.

" _Be careful, my friend,"_ Kanen'tó:kon warned in their mother tongue as he began to turn away.

" _You as well,"_ Connor replied. " _Now go!"_

His childhood friend nodded and jogged away, the woman in his arms. Connor gritted his teeth and sprinted up a fallen tree. He leaped from the ramp to snatch a low branch. Thankfully the limb was strong enough to hold his weight, allowing him to climb into the canopy. He jumped tree to tree, weaving swiftly between them. His blood was boiling.

He was tired of this. Men welcoming themselves to the valley, pretending the land was their own when they had no right. It was bad enough they did it to his people, but was there no end? And it was one thing to do such, but to hurt innocent people merely for convenience? The warrior would not tolerate it. He will send a message to _all_ who dared to cross him.

The Assassin paused as he heard the crunching of footsteps beneath him. He glanced down to see a man in torn leather clothing, holding a musket. He was grumbling under his breath and was not even trying to quiet his footsteps. Connor rolled his eyes. Not even a proper hunter.

But Connor was, as he embraced his predatory instincts as the poacher stepped closer. Just one more step… There! He didn't hesitate.

The native hunter threw the rope dart's blade towards the man. It buried into his neck, through and through. The poacher gave a gurgling sound and desperately tried to rip out, but it was too late. Connor fell from the tree branch, using his weight to create his own pulley system. As he fell, he tugged on the rope, pulling the poacher into the branches where he had once been. All sign of the thug disappeared, only steady drops of blood dripping from the corpse.

Connor paid no mind as he moved on, stalking through the brush on silent steps. He hadn't traveled far when he encountered the next poacher. The man was relieving himself, humming tunelessly as he faced a tree. His hums turned into a scream as Connor threw his second blade, this one burying in the man's back. Like the one before, he tried to yank it out, but his arms could not reach back that far. Instead he stumbled defenselessly as the Assassin pulled him back with the rope, no different than how he pulled the _Aquila_.

When the man was close enough, the teenager reached up and sliced his neck. The flailing poacher went still. Connor placed the dead body in the brush, the foliage perfectly camouflaging him. It was then the Mohawk warrior heard voices from the path up ahead. Narrowing his eyes, the native quickly scampered up a nearby tree. A pair of poachers appeared just as he blended himself in the canopy.

"William Johnson's openin' up some of the Mohawk land he purchased for free huntin' soon," one man was saying. "We might be able to make a good haul up there."

"I hear lumberin' will be allowed to boot," the second poacher sneered.

The poachers snickered, even though Connor saw nothing funny. Rage made his vision red. Without hesitating, he threw his last dart into the man closest to him. It buried in his skull and the man went still. The first poacher was clueless as the event happened behind him. He continued on, but suddenly paused, eyes narrowed as he scanned the forest ahead.

"Something doesn't feel right," he snarled. No reply from his friend. "John?"

He turned around and loudly cursed as he saw the corpse of second poacher. Eyes wide, he wildly looked around before finally having the sense to look up. He was only greeted with Connor flying towards him like a bird of prey. Before the poacher could work up a scream, the Assassin crashed into him with all his weight, crushing him. The killer put him out of his misery by stabbing his hidden blade in his heart. The poacher went still with a moan.

"Hey! Where are you fellas?" a voice called.

Connor flinched and ducked behind a tree. Looking beyond with one eye, he saw the final poacher, wandering around, clueless, as he searched for his friends. The Assassin held his breath and ducked out of sight, hiding in the shadows. He did not dare move as the man sauntered past him, calling for the others. When his back was turned, Connor pounced. He snatched both the man's hands and held them behind him, holding the tip of his hidden blade to his throat.

"Tell me, is it common hunting practice to shoot strangers in the forest?" the teenager demanded.

"N-no! I—" the man stammered, but Connor was in no mood to hear his excuses.

"Spare me!" The native violently shoved him away. The poacher fell on all fours before scrambling to his feet, Connor snarling behind him. "Go! Tell the friends you have left of what happened here."

The poacher did not need to be told twice. He ran into the forest, not looking back.

* * *

Everyone was gathered in the kitchen when Connor returned. The woman was sitting on a chair, bandages wrapped around her wound. Achilles leaned over her, already tossing away bloody cloths. Kanen'tó:kon was in the corner of the room. The native was shifting his weight, glancing uneasily at his surroundings. Connor couldn't blame him. The house felt confining in his first few months of residency.

"Thank you, Achilles," the woman was saying.

"You are most welcome," the old man replied, his voice sincere.

"Why did those men attack you?" Connor asked his guest as he entered the room.

"It's no secret this land is full with game," the huntress explained. "I spotted the trespassers while I was on my way to request permission to hunt here myself and suggested they do the same. They didn't take it too kindly."

Connor leaned on the door's frame, arms crossed. "The bounty of the forest is not mine to give. It is your right to hunt on this land, but I would appreciate if you trade surplus with the other residents of the valley."

The woman leaned back with a grin. "Very well, I accept. And I don't think I've introduced myself. Name is Myriam."

The Assassin nodded. "Connor." He suddenly felt Kanen'tó:kon's stare boring into him. He reacted quickly. "Excuse us, for a moment."

Myriam nodded and Achilles went to fix supper. Meanwhile Connor led his friend through the foyer and out the front door. Thankfully Kanen'tó:kon didn't speak until they were outside.

" _Why have you adopted a coatman's name?"_ he asked, speaking in Kanien'keha.

" _The white men do not appreciate our kind,"_ Connor explained. " _It is better they do not know."_

Kanen'tó:kon narrowed his eyes and sneered. " _You would surrender your identity just to pretend to be one of them?"_

" _Of course not, my friend. It is only easier this way. After all, they can't even pronounce my name."_

Connor had meant it as a half-hearted joke, but Kanen'tó:kon was still dark. The Assassin flinched as his coldness.

" _My heart is still with our people,"_ the teenager insisted. " _I will defend our tribe."_

" _Three years you have gone, and the white men threaten to drive us away,"_ Kanen'tó:kon retorted. " _I fear for you, my friend."_

" _You do not need to. Go back to the village and watch over our people. I will stop William Johnson's theft."_

Kanen'tó:kon nodded, as if he was grateful of Connor's resolution. The native turned and jogged away, towards the direction of their village. Even though Connor wanted to follow him—and prove he was still Ratonhnhaké:ton—he turned in the opposite direction. Towards William Johnson. Towards Charles Lee. Haytham and Selah.

Now began his war against the Templars.

* * *

Selah drove her hanger sword through the gut of a dummy, hay spilling out. She couldn't help but imagine Charles Lee in its place. _Stupid fool_.

Gritting her teeth, she spun around and slashed the face another dummy, imagining she was shaving his irritating mustache. Let's see if he's still grinning, then. The Templar ripped out her sword from her "victim." Around her were shredded sacks of hay, a fine layer of the stuff covering the ground. Shay would be proud.

The woman wiped her brow and sheathed her sword. Panting, she bent over and leaned on her knees. A cool breeze blew from the ocean, displacing the locks of her hair. Her skin was smothered underneath layers of clothing, so it did little to cool her sweating, but Selah appreciated it. This was her favorite place in the fort.

She practiced for hours alone in a training ring. Her training grounds were located outside, away from the cramped space of headquarters. It even had a view of the ocean, allowing her to inhale its salty scent and feel its breeze in her hair as she strengthened her skills.

The military district of Fort George. It hadn't changed much in the years she lived here. Closed off from the city of New York by forbidding walls, only members of the Templar Order and the British army were allowed here. Redcoats and leather clothing walked side-by-side, indifferent to each other. And after years of walking its streets, indifferent to _her_.

No one questioned the crossdressing woman that wandered Fort George, who was always surrounded by intimidating men. She crossed the streets without attention, but Selah's mind was elsewhere. She did not mean to, but her mind wandered to that day, three years ago.

Lee _had_ to interfere with her mission. She had _everything_ under control. Yes, she hadn't expected that Indian to appear—nor knew where he had come from—but it was only a minor setback. She still remembered how easily she threw him off. If Lee had waited _one_ more moment, his services would not be needed. Instead, he completely ruined her objective, and innocent lives were the cost.

What little existed in their relationship immediately evaporated, and they had not exchanged a word since. Thankfully Haytham saw it wiser not to intervene and was careful to keep them separated. That was fine by Selah. Three years later, she still had a sore spot for the man, even though the "wound" had healed. Into a scar…

Why _was_ that Indian there? In the center of Boston, no less. To make it more absurd, he tried to kill her. Yes, in the short amount of time they made eye contact, Selah saw the resolution in his eyes. And he seemed so… _familiar._ In more ways than one.

Selah shook her head and once again shoved it away. It did not matter. It had been three years, and she had no word of any trouble from any natives. And she didn't know any natives. The only ones she had met were the representatives that visited the Homestead during her days as an Assassin apprentice. There was one that she particularly remembered. What was her name? Tiio? Diio? No, it was Ziio. Yes, she was— Another violent shake.

 _Stop reminiscing about the past, Selah,_ the woman told herself. _Those days are gone. You're a Templar now._

By now Selah had made it to the gates that led to the Templar headquarters. She gave a nod of greeting to the guards posted outside before making her way to the main building. After navigating the maze-like hallways that she had memorized years ago, she made it to Haytham's study. The double doors were made of mahogany, the crest of the Templar Cross etched on each door. Selah paused in front of it when she heard voices coming from the other side.

"I have several of my agents within their organization" a deep, gravelly voice asked. _Lee_. "We will know what they are plotting soon.

"Very good," the musical voice of Haytham replied. "And perhaps they may aid in finding our mutual friend."

"I plan to send another patrol into the frontier. People have been expanding towards the west in the past few years. Some past the mountains…"

A snort from Haytham. "Then the army will deal with those fools, if the French or Indians don't get to them first. Don't waste our resources going out so far."

"As you wish, sir."

Selah squinted. What were they talking about? She knew of the Royal Proclamation, which forbid any settlement west of the Appalachian Mountains. It was to appease the Native Americans and prevent another war between the peoples, but many colonists ignored the law. A mistake they sometimes paid with their lives.

But the rest made no sense. Mutual friend? Patrol? The Templar was well aware Lee and Haytham had their private meetings, discussing topics not even she knew of. Especially since she was yet to be a Master Templar, she was not surprised to be out of the loop. Still, her skin crawled.

Suddenly the door handle moved and the door opened. Selah leaped back, only to come face-to-face with Charles Lee. The air lit up like a powder keg.

"Selah," the Master Templar greeted curtly.

"Charles," the woman replied in the same manner.

Without another word, Lee walked away, leaving the door to Haytham's study open. He knew what she was there for. Selah entered the room, closing the door behind her. She decided not to ask about what she heard. Haytham and Lee always had their secret meetings about the organization of the Order.

"Ah, Selah, good, I was just about to send for you," the Grandmaster hummed. Selah cocked an eyebrow as she sat down in the chair across from him.

"A new assignment?" she guessed.

"Yes, a favor for William Johnson, actually." Haytham propped his elbows on the desk, interlocking his fingers. "Several large shipments of tea are coming in. Likewise, he already has several investments over them that cannot be compromised."

"What does this have to with me?"

"Rebel activity has increased over the last several months. Smuggling, mostly, but also sabotaging and—"

"Riots in the streets," Selah finished. She had spoken with Major Pitcairn several times, only for the man to be ranting about wasting good soldiers to quell civil disobedience. Haytham nodded.

"We believe an underground organization known as the 'Sons of Liberty' is behind these acts. They've been expanding the last few years, speaking against the Crown and 'unfair taxation.'"

"Who isn't?"

Haytham gave an amused snort. "Yes, well, the Sons are more… aggressive in their protests. And since Johnson does direct business with His Majesty, he fears he might be targeted."

"I fail to understand. I thought we _wanted_ the people to stand up against the Crown?"

"We do, when it's _controlled_. It seems these Sons of Liberty have another agenda in mind. If they continue their activities, it could eventually lead to war. And that is _not_ something we need."

Selah narrowed her eyes. She had enough of war.

"What would you have me do?" she asked.

"You are to spend the next few weeks under Johnson's charge," Haytham ordered. "You are to oversee these transactions and ensure everything goes smoothly. I'm sure he will have more details for you."

"And what about the Sons of Liberty?"

"I have spies working on collecting information about them. I'll keep you informed. For now, do your best for the Order."

"I understand, Haytham."

The woman rose from her chair, preparing to leave. It was best she left as soon as possible. She paused by the door when the Grandmaster spoke up again.

"Be careful, Selah," he warned. His face was stern, but his stone eyes shone with only something Selah could see. Concern. "We've yet to learn what these men are capable of."

"You have my word."

* * *

 **Hmm… Selah's upset about something. I wonder what it could be? And I wonder why Haytham and Selah aren't discussing Johnson's purchase of Mohawk valley?**


	12. Part II: On Adams's Trail

Macneal's Rope Yard was filled with the sounds of hammering and sawing of wood. Men grunted as they carried loads of rope thicker than their arms across the yard, and the ropes' lengths were not short by any means. The shells of new ships loomed over the yard, waiting for the day their construction would be complete and they would sail across the seas. Next to the yard were docks filled with military ships, crammed with cargo to resupply their patron fort.

Fort Hill rested above the shipyard, overlooking the harbor like a vigilant guardian. Dull, gray walls surrounded the encampment, hiding away the interior from the outside world. All could be seen were the small figures patrolling the ramparts. As the name suggested, the fort rested on the top of a hill.

Selah rolled her eyes. Only the military would come up with such an uninventive name. As she climbed up the hill towards the main gate, she glanced down at the warehouses below. She saw squadrons of regulars marching across the yard and all of Johnson's men armed with muskets. The workers leered at them, even though the soldiers seemed oblivious. Save for one commander shoving a lower-class man into a wall. The worker retaliated with a roar, throwing a fist at the redcoat. He missed and two more soldiers pounced on him and pinned him to the wall, binding his hands. Selah shuddered.

It wasn't the only the Customs House that was a place of excitement. Riots and strikes had been plaguing the Rope Yard for weeks. Pitcairn ordered soldiers from Fort Hill to increase security across the docks, allowing them to permission to arrest any rabble-rousers. It worked, quieting the yard ever since the Massacre, but at a cost. Pitcairn had meant good intentions, but unfortunately his subjects had no problem abusing their power.

The woman reached the gate, showing a letter of summoning to the two guards. The sentries exchanged glances and the man that read it stared at her over the paper, but said nothing. With a grunt, he gave the letter back and allowed her to enter.

The interior was really no different from any other fort. Soldiers in red coats milled around the main courtyard, some standing off to the side in a firing line to practice shooting. Some were in groups, exchanging stories of their tours across the colonies, even drinking. How they got that amount of liquor in the fort, Selah had no idea, nor did she really want to pursue the matter at the moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw soldiers loading supplies into a storage shack, mostly gunpowder. A handful of men disappeared down a flight of steps, most likely to the lower parts of the fort that dug into the hill. However, the fort was still quieter than usual, as Selah noticed many were absent, hiding inside for shelter instead.

Winter had reclaimed Boston. Ice covered the ground and Selah could see her breath fogging around her face. A light snowfall came from the gray clouds above. It was cold enough for Selah to purchase a leather coat.

The Templar approached the main building of Fort Hill, made of the same stone as the surrounding walls. The interior was warm and comfortable, the sound of a hearth crackling coming from a nearby room. The darkness of the night was held back by candles, alit at every corner. It was warm enough for the Templar to shed her coat. She traversed through the building, quickly reaching a room with a pair of male voices coming from inside.

William Johnson stopped mid-sentence when he looked up and noticed her. His eyes gleamed and his smile broadened ear-to-ear. He didn't hesitate to approach her.

"Selah! It has been far too long!" he greeted, arms spread.

"I was only at your manor last summer," the woman chuckled.

It was the truth: every summer Selah went into the frontier, accompanying Johnson to his home in John's Town. It was the only thing that pleased her more than training at Fort George. Selah had always had a softness for the forest, taking any chance to be surrounded by its lush colors and refreshing scents. It was even better when she was allowed to assist Johnson in his negotiations with the local tribes. Even though the same could not be said for many living in the Colonies, the Templar had a mutual respect for the natives, as much as William Johnson himself. Selah accepted his embrace, wrapping her arms around his broad chest.

"You become more beautiful every time I see you," the Master Templar murmured. When they pulled apart, he added, "You have become a fine young lady, Selah."

"And warrior," a voice with a Scottish accent spoke up.

Selah peered past William Johnson to see a new figure. The woman smiled at Jonathan Pitcairn. The British commander wore a red coat like many of his soldiers, except it was lined with gold cloth. He wore black trousers and polished black boots as tall as hers. Since he was indoors, he had shed his brown cloak and had. His now white hair tied in a queue.

William had not aged much since when Selah first met him, though his reddish-brown hair had turned salt-and-pepper. His beard that he once trimmed close to his face was more wild, but still considered appropriate by society. His attire was a mix of the worlds he lived in: British and Mohawk. He wore a bright crimson coat and a neckcloth tied around his collar with black trousers, typical of most colonist men. However, leather moccasins covered his entire legs and a shawl tied around his torso, decorated with native symbols.

"So," Selah began, deciding to go with business. They would be here all night if she didn't. "Haytham said you sent for me?"

William nodded. "Ah, yes." Putting a hand on Selah's back he escorted her to the central table, which was filled with ledgers of the man's business. Once the woman began overlooking them herself, the Master Templar pulled a respectable distance away. "I'm sure you know about the intolerable taxes Parliament has been placing on the Colonies, including tea."

How Selah could not hear about it? It was all Shay and Haytham complained about. As both were businessmen with empires that stretched across the Colonies, they were enraged when a good quarter of their investments was sacrificed to the government. Haytham even commented the taxes were worse than during the Seven Years War.

"I thought that tax was repealed, though," Selah commented.

"It was," Jonathan spoke up. "On basic materials to build and live on, but not on tea. What's the problem they're charging twice as much as it's worth."

"Since it's coming directly from India, it should be cheaper than even its price in the Underworld," William explained. "But since Parliament is still in debt from the war, it added a tax to these shipments to raise quick investments, in hopes the people of the Colonies wouldn't notice. A poor tactic, I'm afraid."

"This is where your business comes in," Selah concluded.

William nodded. "With some help from some… 'friends,' I've been selling the tea at its proper price. This way, the people are pleased and the Order gains funding. Not to mention citizens can realize just how much they are being played."

Selah smiled. "Sounds like a fair system."

"It's supposed to be, but I'm afraid it is working a little too well. The people have been speaking against the taxes, saying they have no right to be placed if the Colonies don't even have a representative in Parliament. There's even word on the street that tax collectors are being targeted, if the riots on the streets aren't saying enough."

The woman narrowed her eyes as suspicion crept into her mind. "Do you think the Sons of Liberty are behind it?"

There was a pause as Jonathan and William exchanged uncertain glances.

"Honestly we have no proof," Jonathan admitted. "But we do know they're setting up their own smuggling ring. My soldiers just arrested a few the other day."

"Do we know their leaders?"

"Not yet," the major sighed, shaking his head.

"Nevertheless, increased rebel activity puts my business in concern," William said. "Only buyers know its true purpose. To everyone else, I'm just another servant of the Crown. Furthermore, I have… other business to attend to. I'm leaving you to overlook things in the meantime."

Selah blinked in surprise. She assumed she would be running errands for William, not be rewarded his entire company. She didn't know a thing about how to run a business.

"W-William," she stuttered. "You misunderstand. I c-can't-"

"I'm sure you can," the man interrupted. "You have been studying under Haytham, have you not? He assures me you're quite capable. And I'm certain Shay has taught you a thing or two."

He spoke the truth. Haytham not only focused teaching her Templar philosophy and her training during his mentorship, but also stressed her education. That included economics. And little did William know how dreadful it was for the girl…

Seeing Selah was still not convinced, William gave a reassuring smile. "It'll only be for a few days. I already have everything taken care of. All I need you to do is oversee my transactions. I would have Major Pitcairn here to do it, but…" The man gestured towards Jonathan, only to pause and allow the fellow Templar to speak up.

"I'll be court-martialed if I am caught meddling in this business," the commander explained. "So it is best I don't at all."

Selah immediately understood, nodding. A law-abiding and loyal major, Jonathan must have hated to allow such crimes to befall right under his nose. But he was more committed to the Order than the military, knowing it was for the best. It was the only reason he did not dare speak up against it. And the woman did not have the heart to tear him between loyalties. She knew all too well what that was like.

The Templar sighed. She was terrified with the concept that she would be in charge of the source of the Order's finances, even if it was for a short time. But if William trusted her to do it, with Jonathan's approval and Haytham's recommendation, it meant these men had much more faith in her than she had. She couldn't disappoint them, when she owed them so much.

"I'll do it," she promised, opening her eyes. William's grin broadened.

"I knew you would," he chuckled, clapping her on the shoulder. "And after all, it'll be a good experience for you."

"And you won't be alone long," Jonathan added. "Shay should be here in a couple days. He'll be picking up a shipment to take inland."

"Since the _Morrigan_ is the only ship small enough to navigate the rivers," Selah concluded.

"Yes," William nodded. "Now, let me fill you in on what you need to know."

Selah settled in as William tutored her on the Templar's finances she would control, and what shipments would be in her hands.

* * *

Selah stared in horror what lay before her. Remains of what had been crates of supplies spread out before her, charred by some explosion. Splinters of wood covered the ground and the contents of the crates were unrecognizable, with black ash staining the debris. Residue of gunpowder. The only thing the woman could point out was a side of a crate that was blown off, the symbol of William's company pasted on it. The red paint was in the shape of the Templar Cross. After staring at the scene for several moments, anger suddenly started to seep in her veins. She balled her hands into fists.

"Who did this?" she demanded through gritted teeth.

"I don't know, ma'am," one of William's men whined. He was the poor messenger sent to collect her, but she had not imagined this was what he summoned her for. "We just found it like this."

Selah turned on him, eyes blazing. "You _found_ it? The whole shipyard was under guard! This should not have happened in the first place!"

The poor man trembled. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

The Templar whirled away from him, letting out a growl-like sigh and rubbing her brow. She knew it was unfair to let out her frustrations on one man, but panic had captured her. Opening her eyes, she looked across the docks to see where there was once crates of William's tea, was now piles of rubble. _Everything_ was destroyed. Haytham would have her hide for this, if William didn't kill her first. He had trusted her, and she could not have disappointment him more. Even worse…

"The _Morrigan_ is expected to make port today. What will I tell her captain?" Selah ranted, not caring if anyone was listening or not. The ring of mercenaries around her exchanged unnerved glances. The woman wouldn't be surprised what rumors they heard of the Bane of Seas and her fearsome captain. Right now, even Selah was apprehensive about facing Shay.

She didn't understand. She oversaw the patrols over shipyard. _Ensured_ they were perfect and approved of the shifts themselves. There was no way a single soul could have neared the shipments with the security she had placed. So _how_?

"Ma'am!" a voice cried. Selah turned to see another mercenary sprinting towards her, no older than his teens. The boy was sweaty and pale with his eyes wide, as if he seen a ghost. "W-we found somethin'."

"Show me," Selah ordered, narrowing her eyes and turning towards him.

The boy nodded and jogged back to where he came. Selah followed with a handful of her men following behind. They came to a storage house on the edge of the docks. The messenger led her behind the shack, away from the prying eyes of workers. The Templar's chest knotted with what she was greeted.

Two more guards stood with muskets, looking as pale and solemn as the messenger. They stood over a slumped body pressed up against the pale wood of the shack, unmoving. Selah's men stood back as she came closer to inspect it. A voice in the back of her mind already told her what it was, but the young woman ignored it, wanting to confirm it herself. She knelt next to the man—another one of William's guards—and gingerly placed her fingers on his neck, only to feel something wet. With a sharp breath, she jerked her hand back. Her eyes widened in shock at the red liquid coating her hand.

Blood.

Selah recoiled from the corpse. The realization of what it was grounded her to reality. She was in charge now. It was her responsibility to prevent this mess—now it was her responsibility to fix it. She faced the men, who were staring at her expectantly.

"Search the yard for any more," she ordered. "And find out who did this. I don't care how. I want the Fort on full alert. There's a trespasser and murderer on the loose. Inform me when Captain Cormac arrives. He—"

"Bad day, huh?" a familiar voice interrupted.

Immediately the men stiffened and Selah's hair stood on end. She whirled around to face none other than Shay Cormac. He was flanked by two of his crew, who looked on the scene with interest. Shay was inscrutable as ever as he glanced from the dead man, to Selah, to the frozen men behind her.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked the men. "You heard her! Go on then!"

At his bark, the mercenaries scrambled away in all different directions like headless chickens. Selah just hoped they knew what they were doing. Meanwhile, Shay turned to his men.

"You two, pick him up," the Templar ordered, jerking his head towards the dead man. "Take him back to the Fort. He deserves a burial."

The sailors nodded and picked up the corpse between them, carrying him back to Fort Hill. That left Shay and Selah alone, the young woman rubbing her temples.

"How did it come to this…" she whined. "William will take my head."

"What makes you say that?" Shay questioned.

Selah let out a humorless laugh. "I take charge of the shipyard for two days and look what happens! All of Johnson's tea just spontaneously combusted!"

"You forgot the three ships in Griffin's Wharf." There were several moments of silence as Selah gapped at him. The Templar captain's lips grew into a wide, mischievous grin. "Where do you think I came from? Had to go meet with some mates that were carrying the tea. Escorted them all the way from Savannah." Chuckling under his breath, Shay turned and walked away. "Ten years and I still have to keep you out of trouble. What will you do without me?"

The younger Templar huffed and jogged to catch up with him. When she came to his side, she widened her steps to keep pace with him.

"I can take care of myself, mind you," the woman insisted.

"Of course you can," Shay drawled. Selah slapped his arm, but the man only chuckled and turned to face her. He was greeted with the woman's serious glare.

"We have to find out who did this."

"Humph, they're probably long gone, by now." The man gestured towards the direction of the city, emphasizing its vastness.

"I think I may have an idea." Shay cocked an eyebrow as her, signaling the girl to continue. "The Sons of Liberty may be behind this."

At Selah's words, the Master Templar cocked his head back and laughed. The woman glared at him, but sailor ignored her. "What? That drunken men's club? Nah, they don't have the guile for this."

"What do you know about them?" Selah pressed.

"Nothing, because there's nothing _to_ know. They're just a bunch of men that show their arses to the Crown. They'll end up in the stocks if they keep up much longer. More talk than action."

Shay walked away again, showing his noninterest. Selah followed him, not wavering.

"Do you know who leads them?" she questioned.

The captain sighed and came to another stop. The woman glared him for several moments until the man broke.

"I heard a rumor in Savannah from some troublemakers talking about a man in Boston," Shay explained. "I think the name was… Sam Adams."

"Never heard of him."

"He's a representative in the Massachusetts House. I hear he has quite a number of friends, too."

"We need to find him."

Another laugh. "And say what? 'Pardon me, sir, we appeared to have lost some tea. Have some to spare?'"

Selah scowled at him. "We don't have to confront him," the woman assured. "Just follow him. If he is innocent, then we search for the true culprit."

"And if he's somehow involved?"

"We make him answer for his crimes."

For a moment Shay was silent as he blinked, contemplating. Eventually he tilted his head and shrugged. "Fair enough, I suppose. And how do you suggest we find him?"

"Well, he's a representative, is he not? We find him at the town meeting house."

Although Selah found it a wise idea, Shay only shook his head. "Just because he's a politician doesn't mean he's guaranteed to be there. Besides, they don't look too kindly on strangers."

Selah crossed her arms over her chest. "Oh? And what do you suggest?"

Shay smiled. "Gist."

"Gist?" Selah echoed.

"Aye. I left him in Boston while I went to Georgia. He's getting too old to sail, anyway. No doubt he heard something. He can find every word on the street without an ear."

"...That absolutely makes no sense."

"Just come on," Shay growled.

Selah gave a squeak of protest as the Master Templar grabbed her arm, dragging her towards the heart of Boston.

* * *

Selah _hated_ taverns. Not yet evening, and the place was already crowded with people. The heat of bodies suffocated the air and the woman was finding it hard to breathe under her thick coat. It was below freezing outside and in here it was hotter than in an oven! Not to mention the unbearable noise of unintelligible babble of drunken men. That was only half the problem.

Every touch on Selah's body—no matter how light or accidental—sent a jolt of panic through her. Her instincts were on edge and she tried to look everywhere at once. She remembered the last time she was in a pub like this. A man had touched her without her consent, and she barely escaped if Shay had not intervened. Even now, she noticed men staring heatedly at her. The woman only glared back. She was no longer a defenseless little girl.

Still, she stayed close to Shay as the Templar pushed his way to the bar, where a man sat, drinking an ale.

"How's the whiskey, Gist?" Shay asked his former quartermaster. Christopher Gist immediately stopped mid-sip and turned to his captain.

"Saints preserve us!" the frontiersman exclaimed. "What are you doing here? I figured you would be in John's Town by now."

Shay was grinning ear-to-ear, flashing teeth, but it disappeared as he took a seat next to the old man. Selah decided to stand next to the pair, still glaring at the men around her.

Now in his sixties, Gist had outlived most men in the colonies (Selah didn't know how, considering his excessive drinking and that he always stood by Death's Door). His skin was sagging and pale, despite that he had spent most of his days in the sun. His hair was as white as the snow outside, and even more unkempt than it was in his younger years. It came to his shoulders, as the man still had no interest in a queue. He still wore his favorite leather coat and broad brimmed hat, even in this horrid tavern.

"We seemed to have a complication in shipments," Shay explained to his best friend. "You haven't heard anything, have you?"

"Not that I can think of," Gist replied.

"How about a man named Sam Adams?"

"Oh, who _hasn't_ heard of him. He's been giving speeches the town house on a daily basis now. Some give him credit for personally repealing Parliament's taxes. ...Most of them, anyway."

The man gave another swig of his drink and Selah raised her eyebrows.

"Is that true?" she asked.

"Unlikely, my dear, but I wouldn't be surprised he had something to do with it. The man has a _knack_ for getting people to loan him favors."

"Does that involve destroying tea?"

"Ha! Is that what happened?" He meant to go into a laughing fit, but seeing Shay and Selah's unamused glares, he quickly silenced. "Erm, no. Adams isn't the type for that. Well, that's what most people say. Some… think otherwise. They're already blaming him about today's fiasco."

"What mess?" Selah asked. He just confessed he knew nothing of what happened at the Fort. What else could he be talking about?

"There's been fighting all over the city all afternoon. Riots against the local soldiers, they say. A man was even murdered in the market. Poor fellow, some madman sliced into his shoulder before taking his head from his shoulders."

Selah immediately shuddered in revulsion while Shay widened his eyes.

"Shite…" he swore.

Gist nodded. Once Selah was able to push the graphic image from her mind, she narrowed her eyes. There was no proof that Sam Adams was behind the riots—or the destruction of the tea—but the woman saw it was no coincidence that both would happen on the same day. So far their only suspect was the Sons of Liberty. William had warned her about them and according to what she had been told, neither event could be put past them. And if this is what they were willing to wrought in the name of "liberty," they had to be stopped. Yet another reason why freedom was a dangerous tool.

But they had to prove the organization was behind this, first.

"Where can we find Sam Adams?" Selah questioned.

"Considering his habit of going all over the city, it'll be hard to find him," Gist explained. "But… I did hear a whisper going around."

"And what is that?" Shay pressed.

"I'm not certain, in all honesty. Just word that the people are tired of His Majesty's policies. The Sons of Liberty plan to send a message to England." Shay and Selah exchanged glances at his words. That did not sound promising. "Also that Nathaniel Bradlee's hosting another party."

"So?" Shay inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Well… I've never been invited, but I've heard they're not exactly… 'parties.'"

Another exchange of glances and Selah's eyes narrowed. She turned to Gist.

"This fellow," she said. "Do you know where he lives?"

* * *

 **Alright, I'll admit it. Gist is not even supposed to be alive right now. He's most famous for being Washington's guide through the frontier during the Seven Years' War (which what it was called at this time), but afterwards, he sort of disappears. Historians can't even decide where he died, but most believe he died in 1759 of smallpox. Yep, that means he shouldn't have been in** ** _Crossed Eagle_** **. However, there is some evidence that he may lived until 1794, so I am using that excuse.**

 **Next, notice I'm making Sam Adams and the Sons of Liberty really shady. I'll explain more about the Sons later, but I'm doing this because is what they are really like in history and they're going to be portrayed as antagonists from Selah's POV. Even today, there is still A LOT of debate over Sam Adams' character. The only thing historians agree on about him that he was an** ** _excellent_** **public speaker.**

 **Last but not least, the boring (probably to most of you) historical facts straight from the textbook. The infamous Stamp Act was passed by the British Parliament on March 22, 1765. It was imposed on all American colonists and required them to pay a tax on every piece of printed paper they used. That included ship's papers, legal documents, licenses, newspapers, etc, and even playing cards were taxed. The money collected by the Stamp Act was to be used to help pay the costs of defending and protecting the American frontier near the Appalachian Mountains. However, this angered the colonists, believing they had no right to be taxed if they had no representative in Parliament (which they argued was actually mentioned in the Magna Carta). The Stamp Act was eventually repealed by some manipulation by Sam Adams, but again, there is argument just how involved he was. However, then the 1767 Townshend Revenue Act was passed, which taxed glass, lead, oil, paint, and paper. Again, this was eventually repealed, save for the tax on tea (background is mentioned above). And again, this angered the colonists, and provoked them to participate in the Boston Tea Party in protest.**


	13. Part II: The Tea Party

Selah crossed the rooftops of Boston on silent footsteps, her dark coat blending into the night. Her surroundings were darker than usual, thanks to the cloud cover hiding away the moon, but it didn't bother the Templar. The black shroud would help her go unnoticed. Shay had wanted to accompany her, but she had refused. More than one would just attract attention. The young woman continued on, muscles tensed.

 _Finally_ she made it Nathaniel Bradlee's home, assuming it was the right address. Slowing her movements, she crossed onto the roof of the building. It was like most homes in Boston: a plain two-story building squeezed between two apartment buildings exactly like it. A building that no one would give a second glance. A fitting meeting place.

Selah was grateful when she found a window leading to the second floor. It was locked, but it wasn't a problem. One hand clinging onto the windowsill and her feet planted onto side of the building, the Templar flicked her wrist. Immediately the steel of her hidden blade ejected. She still had it, after all these years. It was the one thing that she couldn't let go. She dug it under the frame of the window until there was a satisfying _click_. With a dark smile, the woman sheathed her weapon and pushed the window open, crawling inside.

The interior was much like the outside: humble and plain. There was only a writing table and a few chairs, along with an armoire. Selah tried to ignore the multiple portraits of Bradlee's family, which seemed to stare at her movements. Instead, she focused on the murmur of male voices rising from the floor below her. It seemed she was conveniently above the room where the meeting was taking place. She crossed to where the voices were the loudest and kneeled on the floor. She dug her hidden blade between two wooden planks, making a makeshift peephole. She peered through it with one eye and sharpened her hearing, allowing her to decipher the mumbling into words.

"Well, it seems the group's all here," a male voice drifted up. It was smooth and clear, almost charming. "Shall we begin, gentlemen?"

There was a collective mutter of approval and shuffling of feet and chairs. Selah could only catch colors of multiple coats and a flash of a face. He had groomed brown hair tied in a queue and clear, ocean blue eyes. He was out of sight as quickly as he appeared, making the woman hiss in distaste. She couldn't make the hole any wider without being noticed. She did see a long, wooden table taking up the room with the men sitting around it.

"I believe it is expected of me to introduce my guest to this meeting," the male voice announced. "Everyone, this is Connor. He will be helping us with tonight's event. Connor, meet the Sons of Liberty."

Selah couldn't help her gasp. So they were right! Then the man who was speaking… it had to be Sam Adams. She listened as the rebel leader listed names, committing them to heart.

"John Hancock, Nathaniel Bradlee, Benjamin Edes, Paul Revere, James Swan, Thomas Young, and you have already met William Molineux and Stephane Chapheau," Adams introduced.

There was a pause and Selah only heard a ruffle of clothing. Apparently the "guest" had no interest in speaking. She tried to see who it could be, but she only saw a flash of white. Suddenly there was the sound of a door being opened and a feminine voice filled the room.

"Ah, I see you men have gotten yourselves comfortable," a woman chimed. "Here's some coffee for you lads. I saw serving tea would just be a bad joke."

Amused chuckles came from the men, relieving the tension of her unexpected appearance. A deep voice spoke up.

"Gentlemen, I would like you for you to meet my sister, Sarah Bradlee Fulton," he introduced. Then that was Nathaniel Bradlee. There were mutters of greeting. Selah rolled her eyes. How long were they going to stall? Shay wasn't jesting when he said all they did was talk.

"Now on to business," a new voice finally decided. "Tonight we must tell the Crown that we will not tolerate their injustice once and for all. Until they treat us as equal British citizens and give a share of Parliament to tell explain ourselves to King George, we have no reason to listen to the Empire's demands."

"Well said, John," another man agreed.

Selah was having difficulty judging who was who. If only she could see! Taking a risk, she buried her hidden blade in the small crevice and sawed the wood until it became wider. Satisfied, she looked back. She saw enough now where she could identify a speaker with a face. The man who had spoken continued on. He had salt-and-pepper hair and dark brown eyes, dressed in a crimson coat.

"A… friend of mine informed me that there are three ships filled with William Johnson's tea in Griffin's Wharf," he announced. "However, thanks to an… accident at the docks this morning, the ships have been put under guard."

There was a collective groan from the group. A plump man in a green coat shook his head.

"That will certainly make things harder," he sighed.

"But not impossible!" a voice snapped. Selah recognized it as the same man that spoke in the beginning of the meeting. He had dirty flaxen hair and blue eyes. He wore a regal sapphire coat with gold touches on the edges. "Come on, now, Revere, where's your spirit?"

"Don't tell me you men are afraid of a group of little puppies?" an accented voice mocked. Selah wanted to say it was French, but it wasn't as rich as others she had heard..

"We must rally the people to our side," another man with silver hair and a gray coat decided. "Turn the crowd's anger to our advantage."

"A sound idea," Adams approved. "John, James, do you think you can gather some of your 'friends' at the Wharf tonight?"

"Of course," the blue-clad man, John Hancock, affirmed.

"As you wish," another gruff voice, belonging to James Swan, hummed.

Adams nodded. "Very well. Once you have enough fellows to help our cause, meet us at the docks. Meanwhile, William, Paul, Connor, Stephane, and myself will make sure the ships are secure. Benjamin, Thomas, Nathaniel, you will follow. And make sure not to draw attention to yourself." The men nodded and hummed reassurances at the chores they were assigned. "Good. I must remind you men that time is of the essence. I prefer we settle this without any violence, but if a man must defend himself, so be it."

"Which means we'll have to move quickly when we're dumping the tea," another man with curly flaxen hair commented.

Selah's heart hammered against her chest. So that's what they were planning! Suddenly her instincts told every muscle in her body to leap out the window and race back to Fort Hill. She had to warn William and John! The Templar resisted the urge. No, the meeting wasn't over yet. She had to learn what else they could be up to. Suddenly a voice joined the meeting, this one completely new. It took Selah a moment to realize it was Adams' "guest," and it was the first time he spoke the evening.

It was a clear, deep voice, pronouncing each word carefully. As if it was not his first language.

"You still have a problem," the guest informed. Selah tried to remember his name, but couldn't. Urgh, what was it?! She was too committed to remembering the Sons of Liberty. "Darkness alone will not cover your actions, especially if you plan to confront the soldiers. You must find a way to hide your identity, or else the Crown will target all of you and perhaps your families."

"I'm afraid you're right," Adams sighed.

"What is your suggestion?" another man questioned.

"Uh, Ms. Fulton, you are good with um, paint, yes?" the guest fumbled. ...Yes, English was definitely not his first language.

"...I assume as a woman you mean make-up?" the woman, Ms. Fulton, drawled. "Yes, I know how to paint."

"Good. We will need your expertise."

"What do you have in mind?" Adams questioned.

Selah could imagine the stranger's knowing smile.

"I believe I have an idea."

* * *

"Damn it, more guards!" Adams hissed.

Connor's muscles tensed. Not again. The group had been forced to take several detours to avoid patrolling regulars, even taking to the tunnels a couple times. Connor had been taking the lead, making sure the coast was clear and helping the others blend in the shadows. It had taken much more time than they intended, and Sam Adams did not hesitate to remind them of the schedule. Now they finally reached the docks, but their problems were not over yet.

"That's more than there was this morning," Adams observed. "And where are Swan and Hancock?"

A squadron of soldiers guarded each ship, all armed with bayonets. Their blood-red coats shone in the lantern light. Connor narrowed his eyes as he analyzed the docks. The soldiers were completely exposed—not even a barrier to use for cover. However, that meant Connor couldn't hide, either. The only advantage he had was his skills in stealth and the fact that there was no moon—Adams was careful to choose the perfect night for that. The Assassin's eyes twitched when he noticed a soldier suddenly stumble, even though he was standing perfectly straight. That's when he realized. The sentries were _exhausted_.

Their shoulders were slumped and they held their muskets weakly, a couple even hanging their heads. In the corner of Connor's eye, he noticed a pair of regulars sleeping in an alleyway. The seventeen-year-old's lips twitched in a ghost of a smile. It seemed it wouldn't be as bad as he thought.

"Stephane," he called in a harsh whisper.

" _Oui?_ "

The chef immediately materialized by the native's side. After Connor had assisted him against some soldiers and showed him William Johnson was responsible for his misfortune, the French-Canadian swore his everlasting loyalty to the Assassin. Connor did not mind, considering Stephane was capable of defending himself with a talent to rally everyone around him. He would be a great ally indeed. The Assassin did not regret telling the man his secret.

"We need to take out those guards— _quietly_ ," Connor ordered.

"I am yours to command," Stephane vowed.

"Please keep it brisk," Molineux requested. "I feel ridiculous in this."

"You _look_ ridiculous," Connor corrected. It was the truth. Connor never really thought of how a white man would look in his people's clothing. He wished he had.

Adams and Molineux had exchanged their thick coats for ratty undershirts—the closest they had to the clothing of the frontier. Adams wore a pelt of a black cow over his shoulder while Molineux wore an old sheet—but it looked more like an oversized blanket than a proper shawl. Adams's hair was long enough to braid, but it was messily decorated with cock and goose feathers. Molineux refused to do so (his hair was too short to do it properly, anyway) and instead stuff his hair with random trinkets, which made him look more mad than decorated. The most ridiculous of all was the war paint.

His people used materials from the earth to create it, allowing it to blend in with the skin but visible enough to make them look intimidating. To their enemies, at least. However, the charcoal and red salve was a sharp contrast to their white skin. More so, instead of following Connor's instructions, they simply slapped it on their faces, making it look like the war paint was applied by a child. Foolish was the least to describe them. It was already smearing from the sweat the men had accumulated on the journey here.

Stephane had refused to wear such paint and clothing, oh, no. Instead, he chose to wear a poorly-fashioned headdress made of nothing but feathers of a rooster. Several had fallen out, having the ceremonial accessory look like a mutilated bird.

It seemed Connor's plan to disguise them backfired. This way, they would attract more attention. But what done was done. They needed to rid of the guards and take the ships, before any more soldiers arrived.

With a silent order, Stephane slipped away into the night while Connor leaped onto the roof of a nearby warehouse. He crouched low, keeping out of the soldiers' sight. His white robes were a sharp contrast to the darkness around him, but he suspected the men were too tired to notice him. They weren't expecting an attack from above, anyway.

Breathing through his nose, Connor allowed his hunting instincts take over. Without a sound, he pulled his bow from his back, notching an arrow. The sound of wood scraping against wood was only whisper. He remained perfectly still for a several moments until… there!

Suddenly a soldier cocked his head and the Assassin let his arrow fly. Instantly the blade was buried in the man's eye and the corpse fell to the ground.

Instantly the sentries snapped awake. They all looked wildly around, trying to find the source. The man standing next to the victim simply stared at him in horror. Before he could join the search, another arrow dug itself in his skull. By now the other regulars realized what was happening.

"We're under at—!" one man screamed, only to be cut off by an arrow in his throat.

Connor fired one projectile after another in rapid succession, slipping back to his routine of his training days at the Homestead. The soldiers had no time to retaliate, and in moments, all of them were dead.

Their attacker's face was emotionless as he placed his bow back in its place. His assault had used up all his arrows, to his annoyance, but at least he had saved a lot of time and energy. But the threat wasn't over yet.

There were three ships: the _Beaver_ , the _Dartmouth_ , and the _Eleanor_. Each was tied to its respective dock surrounded by pool of water, but the docks were right next to each other. There was a squadron of soldiers guarding each ship. Connor had taken the ship on the far right, the _Dartmouth_. Stephane should be liberating the _Beaver_ about now, on the opposite side. That left the guards protecting the _Eleanor,_ the central ship.

Not wasting time, Connor leaped off his perch and onto solid ground. Ignoring the carnage, he leaped onto the ship's deck, only to immediately duck. Already he spotted the sentries surrounding the _Eleanor_ , this group much more alert than the first. And had more men. The Assassin analyzed the situation, just like Achilles taught him to.

He couldn't mow them down like before: he had no projectiles that he could kill them off with. Though he was tempted, he couldn't charge headfirst into the enemy. It was a sure way to get himself killed. Suddenly there was a winter gust of wind, strong enough to provoke a groan from the mast above the native. Then Connor had a brilliant idea.

As quickly and silently as he could, he scaled the mast, using ropes and bolts attached the wood as hand and footholds. He scampered onto the beam of the foremast, balancing on his heels. No different than a branch of a tree of his homeland, Connor crossed the beam until he was directly over a pair of soldiers. Not a soul noticed him, as clueless as his first victims. Perfect. Then they wouldn't be expecting this, either.

The Assassin pulled out a rope dart and with an expert toss, buried it in a soldier's neck. Immediately his gurgled screamed filled the air. Before any of the guards could react, Connor fell from the beam, taking his victim's place. The second his feet touched the ground, he stabbed his hidden blade in the neck of a redcoat.

"What the fu—" another man called out before he was cut off by Connor's tomahawk burying itself into his skull. The corpse crashed onto the ground, the Assassin falling with him. The native yanked out the axe out and turned to see a soldier swinging a bayonet at him, having recovered from the shock of the surprise attack. Connor blocked the attack with his tomahawk, pushing the rival blade away. He reached out with his hidden blade, driving it into the soldier's throat. In a matter of seconds, four men were killed. Now six to go.

By now the element of surprise was gone. Already the warrior could see rage and panic in the guards' eyes and the native realized he couldn't do this alone. One soldier was already charging towards him with a musket. Connor spun around the blade as it was thrusted at him. The Assassin slammed his tomahawk into the shoulder of his attacker. The regular screamed but was quickly silenced by Connor slashing his hidden blade across the man's throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a soldier begin to take aim at him. He bit his lip and let out a piercing whistle.

As if it was a summoning, the reply was immediate. The soldier was just about to shoot when suddenly a butcher's knife came spinning out of the darkness. The oversized blade buried into the man's skull. His eyes glazed over and his body stumbled before collapsing onto the ground. Not even a moment later, Stephane came roaring out of the shadows, armed with a splintered piece of wood the length of his arm. He slammed into another soldier, who let a scream of fright. Three left.

The Assassin shoved his victim away to see two more soldiers charging for him. One swung his bayonet at him, but the warrior leaned out the way. With lightning reflexes, he snatched the man's musket, pulling it away. The owner kept his grip, allowing him to be thrown to the ground, landing on his back. The second one took the place of the first, but before he could attack, Connor buried his tomahawk in his throat.

Seeing a glint in the corner of his eye, the Assassin yanked the dying man towards him and spun around. He was greeted with the first attacker pointing his musket him. Before the soldier realized what Connor had done, he fired, sending a musket ball right into his comrade's heart. The man's eyes widened in horror, but before he could do anything more, Connor threw his meat shield away and pounced on the fallen soldier. The recoat tried to protect himself with his arm, but it was futile as the Mohawk warrior sliced his tomahawk into his heart.

The man gave a gurgling sound of death. Satisfied, Connor slowly rose to his feet, but he was not safe yet. Suddenly a wooden pole was pressed against his windpipe, making him choke. Instinct kicking in, he snatched the musket with both hands and leaned forward with a violent jerk. The momentum sent the regular behind him over his head, crashing onto the ground in front of the teenager. The Assassin's hidden blade was the last thing the man ever saw.

By now the adrenaline was dissipating, having a wave of soreness and exhaustion wash over Connor. Panting, the boy looked around for another opponent, only to see none. He turned to see a ragged Stephane. His headdress was somehow still on his head, but it was crooked and the feathers were bent and bloody. Connor didn't have the heart to tell him, considering the chef's face was covered with sweat and blood and his clothes were ruined. The teenager doubted his own clothes were much better.

Well, they cleared the docks. Now it was time to call the others. The Assassin stepped forward and let out a soft whistle. Immediately Adams and Molineux appeared. Both men's eyes widened as they took in the massacre.

"Well, I'm glad we brought you along," Molineux commented. Connor was too winded to retort.

"...Right," Adams drawled. "Now, we just have to wait for—"

He was interrupted by a noise. At first it sounded as a faint sound of loud conversations, like what Connor heard at the state house. Then it grew louder, accompanied by the sound of pounding of footsteps, like stomping. Then it came as a roar. Connor blinked and tilted his head, even taking a step as the source it stepped into view. His allies showed equally perplexed looks.

First it was a single man in coat. Then there was another. And another. A group of both men and women followed. And then a whole horde of people swarmed around the corner of the warehouse. It was the same on the other side of the docks: an entire stampede of citizens of all classes marching down the street, armed with torches. From the crowd, Connor picked out the other members of the meeting. Hancock, Edes, Revere, Swan, Young, Bradlee, and even Ms. Fulton... They were all yelling at the top of their lungs. Well, so much for being quiet. At first it was just unintelligible screams, until Connor suddenly heard the yells beginning to form words. That turned into a chant.

"No taxation without representation!"

"No taxation without representation!"

Connor glanced at Adams. The man's bewildered look had turn into one of zeal. Without warning, the freedom leader leaped onto a nearby crate, standing above the assembling crowd. Spreading his arms, he yelled over the noise, which Connor didn't know was possible.

"Tonight, let the people of America tell the King and his Parliament _no more_! _Tonight_ , let us tell the world the true meaning of liberty! My friends, let the tea party of the century _begin_!"

Selah stared in horror at the sight below her. Where there was supposed to be guards protecting what was left of Johnson's tea, was only for there to be a sea of people completely filling the docks. There had to be over a hundred at least. They were all cheering with zeal, waving their arms and hats in the air as they screamed at the top of their lungs. How the Templar didn't hear them from the fort, she had no idea.

Then through the noise, she heard a distinct noise. It sounded like splashing. She looked to the source and gasped, appalled. There were a dozen men on each ship, tossing boxes over the railing into the harbor below. Each time one hit the water, the crowd seemed to roar louder. The boxes were painted with the symbol of the Templar Order. Johnson's tea. She was too late. Already the black waters of the harbor were turning into a stained brown.

After several moments of absorbing it all, the woman's frozen veins were finally thawed as fury burned through her. She gritted her teeth and balled her fists, digging her nails in her skin. Had they any idea what they had _done_? Selah snapped her head towards the way she came. Where were Pitcairn's men?

Like her prayer was heard, the reply was immediate. Without warning, a shout of warning sounded over the pandemonium.

"REGULARS!"

Sure enough, a group of redcoats appeared from the night, racing full speed towards the ships, clutching their muskets. At last! However Selah's excitement plummeted as suddenly a group of armed civilians charged for the incoming soldiers. The two groups clashed before the regulars could reach the ship, halting their progress. The Templar looked to another part of the docks to see another group of soldiers.

This group was having a more difficult time than the first. They were forced to go through the thick of the crowd, and the rebels had no interest in letting them interfere. The civilians pushed back the soldiers, some even pounding them. One man eventually fell. A couple of the stronger soldiers made their way through, only to be greeted by rebel guards. Selah cursed. This was hopeless! She looked back to the first group on the far side of the port, hoping they were having better luck by now. She gasped.

The soldiers were all dead. The surviving civilians, barely winded, were already shoving their corpses into the harbor. What? That was impossible! There was no way a group of drunken men could overcome trained soldiers. How—?

She was interrupted when a shout of pain came from below her. Selah glanced down to see a soldier clutching his bleeding shoulder. The civilian that attacked him cocked back his musket, bracing to slice him again. The Templar would not allow it.

The ex-Assassin flew from her perch from the roof, landing next to the assailant. She stabbed her hidden blade into his throat and threw the corpse into the ground. Immediately, the woman spun on her heels to avoid a strike from another bayonet. She parried it with her other hidden blade, leaving the man exposed. In a blink of an eye, the Templar unsheathed her sword and skewered it through his stomach. She kicked the corpse away and pulled out her weapon. She twisted to find another opponent, being greeted with several more rebels.

Several redcoats joined her, fighting by her side, as they pushed back the rebel guards. It wasn't long before the mutineers' confidence was replaced by fear and panic when they realized their mistake. Selah dispatched two more men as quickly as the first. Beside her, she heard screams of other men dying. The Templar was greeted with a young boy whose face had gone pale with fright. She decided to pity him.

The warrior whacked his musket away with her sword and spun, using the momentum to plant a strong kick to the boy's chest. He went flying into the water. Selah took a mouthful of breath, but didn't have a chance to relax. Suddenly a scream of agony came from behind her.

The Templar whirled around to see the British commander—one of Pitcairn's favorite—with a butcher's knife in his shoulder. He was thrown to the ground, a new man taking his place. He wore a worker's outfit and his apron stained with blood. His looked was crazed and his face was in a feral sneer. ...Why the hell was he wearing a cock's arse?

Without warning, the crazed man lunged forward towards her, his bloody knife over his head. Selah couldn't help but yelp as she leaped away from his strike. Reacting quickly, she kicked his shin, knocking his feet out from under him. The madman was left sprawling on the ground, trying to get his bearings. Selah would not allow him. She raised her sword to send its tip into his chest, but she never had the chance.

Something _heavy_ slammed into her, sending her feet off the ground. The woman wailed as she was thrown against the wall of a warehouse, ricocheting off of it and onto the dirt. Groaning, she picked herself onto all fours, shaking her head to rid of the stars. In the corner of her eye, she spotted leather boots nearing her.

As quickly as she could, she sliced her sword towards the approaching leg. She heard a yell of pain and surprise and the leg retreated. The Templar took the opportunity to leap to her feet, not hesitating to charge her attacker.

The fight went by in a blur. Selah only saw streaks of movement and glints of metal, an occasional flash of white or red. The clanging of metal hitting metal grated her ears, along with grunts of effort and pain. The world slowed down enough for the woman to see a weapon coming for her head. She raised her sword to block it. She expected to be greeted with a sword, instead latched onto her weapon was… a hatchet?

She didn't put much thought. Using the same trick as before, the Templar spun around and planted a kick to her opponent's stomach. It was like hitting a rock. Suddenly an iron grip captured her ankle, making her yell. Without her permission, she felt her leg being pulled away, her body being dragged along with it. Selah was thrown onto the ground, tumbling like a ragdoll. She used the momentum to leap back to her feet, facing her opponent with several feet between them.

Only for her to freeze.

She was greeted with a man _easily_ two times her size. He was dressed in an ivory coat that reached his heels, pieces of cobalt cloth attached to the clothing. Selah couldn't see his face, and his skin looked dark, due to the shadow of his _hood_. Tall, leather moccasins reached all the way to his thigh, only a sliver of blue breeches visible. A red sash was tied around his waist, secured by a belt. Selah stared at it.

Instead of a buckle, the belt was attached by a metal piece in the shape of the symbol. The same symbol she swore to uphold until death, only to break that vow and to throw the pieces away.

The symbol of the Assassin Brotherhood.

Suddenly an image flashed through her mind.

" _James!_

" _I have faith in you."_

" _Please don't leave me…"_

 _"You're an Assassin now, Selah. Be strong. Don't lose faith in the Brotherhood."_

"Where… did you get those robes?" Selah demanded through a whisper, not even moving a muscles.

"What does it matter to you?" her opponent taunted.

"Where did you get them?!"

The man visibly flinched at her harsh tone. "They were given to me… by Achilles."

Selah's heart stopped. "...You're lying. Achilles is dead."

The rebel snorted. "That is what you would like to believe, would you?"

The woman started shaking. That was… impossible.

 _"Do not die tonight, Selah. You must… live. Do not… give up…"_

" _MENTOR!"_

"Those robes…" she breathed, "belonged James Crawford. My mentor."

* * *

 **Wow, longest chapter so far. Minor plot twist at the end. Yep, Connor's outfit used to be James's. Look back in** _ **Crossed Eagle.**_ **And for those who don't know who James is, go back and read** _ **Crossed Eagle**_ **.**

 **Okay, I will admit this chapter was originally supposed to be solely from Selah's point of view, but I realized in order to show everything I had planned, Connor had to steal some of the show. The rest of the arc will be focused on Selah, rest assured.**

 **Historical Trivia: Ubisoft wasn't kinda close with historical accuracy during this sequence. There was no confrontation between the rebels and British soldiers, nor was there anyone harmed. I was originally going to take this route, but let's face it: fighting is much more fun and I know you guys are here to read an action-packed story. As for the tea party itself, it took nearly three hours for more than 100 colonists to empty the tea into Boston Harbor. The chests held more than 90,000 lbs. (45 tons) of tea, which would cost nearly $1,000,000 dollars today (or $11 dollars a pound). As this was the first organized act of rebellion against British rule, the Sons of Liberty were very careful about how the Boston Tea Party was planned and executed. In fact, only one member of the Sons of Liberty, Francis Akeley, was caught and imprisoned for his participation. He was the only person ever to be arrested for the Boston Tea Party.**

 **Sorry if the meeting in the beginning was a little confusing. The members of Sons of Liberty I included were the ones I saw were most likely to be involved in the Boston Tea Party. The most interesting figure was Ms. Fulton, known as the "Mother of the Boston Tea Party." She was the one who made the costumes for the Sons of Liberty, which were based on Mohawk Indians.**


	14. Part II: The Sons of Liberty

_"_ _One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter." ~Gerald Seymour_

Connor stared at the woman in shock at her statement. What did she… mean by that? Achilles never mentioned his robes having any owner. His mouth moved before he could stop it.

"Selah-"

He instantly regretted it. The Templar's eyes snapped up, eyes blazing.

"How do you know my name?" she demanded.

Connor gulped. "Achilles told me about you."

The anger on the woman's eyes suddenly went wide and filled with horror. Without warning, she threw her sabre at him with a screech, using the sword like an oversized knife. Instinctively Connor dodged the flying projectile, diving into the ground. He rolled into a crouch, unsheathing his hidden blade as he braced to lunge towards his opponent.

Only for Selah to be gone.

Connor blinked, perplexed, as he slowly to rose to his feet. He scanned the area, eyes lingering in the shadows and over the crowd, looking for any sign of the ex-Assassin. There was none.

"Connor! Are you alright?!" Suddenly Molineux was beside him, bloody sword in hand and eyes lit up with panic. "I saw you fighting with some man. Did he hurt you?"

The native ignored him as he continued his search, only to realize it was fruitless. Disregarding the man's concern, the Assassin muttered, "That was no man…"

Not paying the man's confused look any mind, the warrior stormed back onto the deck of the _Eleanor_. Stephane was following him, already back on his feet. As the small group crossed the ship, Connor heard a final splash and the crowd roared.

"We've done it!" Adams cheered triumphantly. He was back on his crate, grinning ear-to-ear as he looked over his victory.

Connor couldn't help but join him, even having a grin tug his lips. The tea was gone. All of it. Johnson could no longer threaten his people. They were safe. For now, at least.

The Mohawk warrior scanned the cheering crowd, only to narrow his eyes at three figures standing in a pool of lantern light on the far side of the docks. Two he recognized instantly. William Johnson and John Pitcairn. Two of his targets. Then who was…?

Connor squinted. The man was a few inches taller than the Templar besides him, and easily taller than even Connor. His raven-black hair was tied back like most colonists, showing his face. It allowed the Assassin to notice the pale scar across his right eye. Connor froze.

Instantly instead of being surrounded by screaming rebels and shadows of the night, the native was saw trees all around him. A bow and arrow was in his hands, aimed at a trespasser disrespecting his people. Shay…?

Instead of wearing a faded green coat meant for exploration, the man wore an all-black coat. Even in the light, it gave him a menacing, shadowy appearance. Crimson touches were slashed across his clothing, including a symbol on his chest Connor could always identify, no matter how far away. The Templar Cross.

So he was a Templar...

Shay Cormac was a brooding thunderstorm, glaring at the instigator with his cold, black eyes. Next to him, Johnson stared, appalled. Pitcairn only looked upon the scene with what looked like disappointment and shame. Suddenly Connor had an idea. These men had threatened his people more than once. He might as well as add salt to their wounds.

"Stephane, is there any more tea?" he asked, turning to the French-Canadian.

" _Oui_ ," the chef confirmed, picking up a final crate. "Saved the last one for you."

Connor nodded in thanks and relieved his friend of the burden. Making a show, he held the box far over his head. The crowd howled with approval. Staying in full view of the peering Templars, he sauntered over to the edge of the dock, holding the crate over the water. Cocking his head with a shrug, he dropped the final box of tea into the harbor. Sending a glare of challenge, he raised his hands in false peace.

Shay only narrowed his eyes further, if that was possible. Even though he looked murderous, he merely turned away from the teenager. He patted Johnson's shoulder as he walked away, not looking back. Pitcairn followed and Johnson hesitated another moment before reluctantly trailing his brethren.

For the first time in a long time, Connor truly smiled. The Assassin Brotherhood had returned.

* * *

Selah stormed through the fortress of Fort George, the weapons she had left clanging at her fast pace. She barged through a pair of guards, who only stared at her in shock instead of trying to stop her. They couldn't have if they wanted to. The woman was already at Haytham's door, throwing it open with a slam. She didn't allow the Grandmaster to comment.

"Why didn't you tell me Achilles was alive?!" she yelled, slamming her palms on his desk.

"I beg your pardon?" Haytham said, cocking an eyebrow as he straightened in his chair. The fact she had to repeat herself somehow made her more furious.

"Achilles is alive. Why did you never tell me?"

Now that the older Templar properly registered her words, his eyes narrowed dangerously and his voice dropped. "How did you...?"

"It is none of your concern. Now tell me: _why_ , Haytham?"

The Grandmaster was quiet for several moments, still brooding, until he finally leaned back, crossing his arms. "I didn't lie to you-I simply never mentioned it. Nor did you ever ask, mind you."

"That's not an excuse and you know it," Selah snarled, gritting her teeth.

"Oh, yes, there was that one time I considered it," Haytham piped up, voice filled with sarcasm. "But then you tried to blind me with those claws of yours so I thought better of it."

"You _captured_ me, Haytham. Burned my home to the ground and took me away from everything I loved."

"Ah, an excellent time to mention your former Mentor willingly decided to rot himself away."

Selah froze at his words. She backed away from the desk, shaking her head. "No… Achilles would never do that…"

Haytham snorted. "There's quite a number of things you don't know about Davenport. James was quite impressive in keeping you shielded from him."

'Don't you _dare_ speak his name," Selah snapped the moment she heard her mentor's name. Haytham only stared, unfazed.

"He's _dead_ , Selah. You _chose_ to forget him."

"I did no such thing! He was my _father_!"

"He _raised_ you, nothing more. And you told me yourself that even his hands were stained. What is to say he only took you in to be a killer?"

Selah flinched at the jab. For as long as she could remember, she had been taught how to fight. The first time she held a knife was six, and at eight, she learned how to wield a sword. The only memory outside of the Assassin Order was when she lived on the streets as an orphan, at five years of age. Hungry, she stole from redcoats, only for the men to punish her, when _he_ came. James took her in, gave her a home, taught her everything she knew. But was even James's kindness a lie?

Noticing Selah's deathly silence, Haytham let out a heavy sigh. "You are more than just a tool to me, Selah. I allowed you command over a portion of my Order, for God's sake."

"Your faith was misplaced, I'm afraid."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The tea is gone. An _Assassin_ destroyed it."

Haytham was on his feet in a blink of an eye. "That's impossible."

"I _fought_ him, Haytham. He said he was trained by Achilles… wearing James's robes."

"Achilles didn't have another to spare?"

Selah only glared, tired of his remarks. She dared to meet those stone, hard eyes, the same eyes that watched the destruction of her home. She was surprised when Haytham lost the contest, the man sighing and he shook his head.

"What does it matter, Selah? What done is done. And if I had told you of Achilles, what difference would it have made?"

Selah glanced from him to the floor. Unable to bear her racing heart anymore, she turned away from the older Templar.

"I suppose we'll never know," she murmured.

She slipped out of the Grandmaster's study, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Selah soared across the roofs of Boston with outspread arms, like an eagle's wings. The winter wind roared in her eyes, wiping her long hair in all directions. Her lungs filled with the cold air in a rhythmic process, despite the woman's throat grew sore. She didn't even mind, as her racing blood and adrenaline banished the frigid weather from her limbs.

Already the stress that choked Selah from the night's events was fading away. The horrid visions of burning flames and screams of death had gone from her mind. Now she was alone with her thoughts and the wind.

" _If I had told you of Achilles, what difference would it have made?_ " Haytham's voice echoed.

She honestly didn't know. She was not close with Achilles. At times, she did not consider herself to have personally known him. But he was the Mentor, leader of the Assassin Brotherhood. Every soul in the village respected him. James especially, the two sharing a friendship. She had memories of dozing on James's lap, barely paying attention to the men's conversation of maintaining the Order. Achilles would occasionally spare his attention towards her, but it was rare.

Even though, Selah wanted to say that if she had known there was another Assassin out there, she would have gone to him. Especially when she was first captured by the Templars, and all she had was hatred for them. But…

The warmth in the woman's veins disappeared with a shiver. She saw a man lying on the cold stone ground, a pool of blood and gray matter around him. She could remember her desperate screams as she was dragged away from her dear friend. William de Saint-Prix. She had tried to reach out to him, only for the Templars to kill him right in front of her. No doubt the same would have happened to Achilles.

And besides, if Haytham said was true… that Achilles surrendered willingly, it would not matter. Especially if the Mentor really committed the sins of his Brotherhood. Selling slaves, burning towns, harming innocents. All for a power that was not his. Selah believed in a way, Achilles really wanted to save the Colonies—he always spoke of such—but in his haste to do so, he destroyed everything around him. Selah's eyes had been opened to see that.

Selah paused on the rim of a chimney, which gave her a view of the city of Boston, the urban landscape stretching to all horizons. In the distance, the Templar saw the dark, unlit land of the frontier. Where the Homestead would be. What if… the Assassin was lying? That Achilles was dead, and he only said such to disturb her? No… he knew her name. Achilles was the only man alive that could have told him. But if Achilles was really was alive, why did he step forward now? And who was that man?

Her trivial thoughts were interrupted when a high-pitched scream filled the air. Selah jumped and whirled around, looking for the source. That was close.

Without a moment's hesitation, she leaped down from her perch, racing across the rooftops. She glanced down at the street, only to skid to a halt.

Below her was an angry mob, made of almost a dozen men. Some held torches for light, with others holding large butcher knives and clubs. The flickering light cast sinister shadows on their faces. Some men were even smaller than her, while a couple others were larger than even Shay. They wore civilian clothes, but Selah spied several holding bottles of alcohol, barely keeping their grip on it. The woman noticed with a shiver crawling up her spine that the street was completely empty. Only the mobbers, surrounding the door of an apartment building.

One gruff man was dragging a woman in a green dress off the front porch, the victim screaming desperately. She was thrown onto the street, crying as she slammed onto the rough ground. A moment later, another set of struggling grunts came. This time a man was brought from inside, handled by two thugs.

"Unhand me!" he demanded, trying to hold a brave facade. "What is the meaning of this?"

Instead of being answered, the thugs threw him onto the ground with the woman, who Selah assumed was his wife. One of the men, most likely the leader, sneered.

"You think you can just steal our money?" he demanded. "Grow yourself fat on our hard labor?"

"What are you talking about? I'm just a tax collector!"

"Oh, 'I'm just a tax collector!' At least we know he have the right man, don't we, lads?" The man looked around with open arms while his cronies laughed. The ringleader looked back down at his prisoner with a sneer. "You think you're so high and mighty? You think you stand for the King? Well, I think King George can kindly kiss my arse." Another round of laughter.

By now the man was staring at his attackers with fear, losing his courage. His wife clung to him, sobbing. "Wh-whaddya want? We'll give you anything, I swear!"

"Oh, no. We don't want anything from you. The only thing we _want_ is liberty, but we can't do that with you tyrants stomping on us. Isn't that right, men?"

"That's what Sam Adams said," a burly man grinned.

"I'm a friend of Adams!" the tax collector cried. "Let me talk to him! We can work something out!"

"You lost your bargaining chip when you casted me and my little girl on the streets," the ringleader spat. "Do you even know what happened to us? My poor Sarah, she got sick. And she's gone, because of _you_. Now, you're gonna pay for it. I'm going to take everything from you, just like you did to me."

"Please, don't!"

The rabble-rouser meant to turn, but looked back to his prisoner, grinning. "Ah, don't worry. In the end of the day, we are all Sons of Liberty!"

Selah's blood ran cold. The ringleader turned to one of his cronies holding a torch, nodding. The thug nodded back, and walked up to the porch in three long steps. Without warning, he threw the torch into the foyer. The tax collector wailed, but it seemed to spur on other rebels, who threw their torches in as well. A couple even tossed their entire bottle of liquor.

" _No!_ " the wife screamed, sobbing.

Selah acted. She leaped from her perch and landed onto the ground, rolling into a crouch to break her fall. Immediately several men whirled around at her appearance with confused gasps. Before they could react, the Templar unsheathed her hidden blade (she cursed her foolishness for losing her sword), and lunged towards the closest man. She impeded her blade in his stomach, not thinking twice.

The dying man gave a gasp and his fellows gave yells of anger and shock. Selah ripped out her weapon and threw her victim onto the ground, just in time to dodge a swipe from a brute's club. Acting quickly, she ripped her dirk from her belt and skewered it through the man's forearm. He let out a bellow of pain as he released his weapon, his hand now useless. Selah ripped the blade back out while she kicked the back of his shin at the same time. The man doubled over, allowing the Templar to pierce his heart.

She heard a muted noise that took her a moment to realize was a curse. She glanced over her shoulder to see a couple of the younger men were running away while several others stared appalled. However, the rest were glaring, eyes burning with fury.

One man threw his torch at Selah, but the warrior easily dodged it. She was greeted with her attacker throwing a fist, but she easily caught it and twisted it around his back, provoking a yell. The Templar ended his misery by impeded her hidden blade in the back of his skull. She dropped the corpse and turned around to be greeted with another opponent. This time, the woman kicked the thug between his legs, provoking a strangled scream. She took advantage of his locking muscles to pierce both her hidden blades into his stomach, only to rapidly stab him several most times, leaving his torso mutilated. A trick she learned from Haytham.

All that was left was the ringleader and a few of his cronies. Their boss's face was twisted with fury.

"You're going to pay for that, you little b-!" the man yelled out, but it was cut short when a dagger was buried in his forehead. Immediately the rebel's eyes glazed over. Another second passed before he crumpled to the ground. His fellows stared in horror, completely frozen, for a few seconds before spinning on their heels, sprinting away.

Selah huffed and flicked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Cowards. Before she could let the sense of victory sink in, a shrill shriek sounded behind her. The Templar spun around to see the woman was struggling towards the house, only for her husband to hold her back. She clawed at him, but he was stubborn, even when she screamed again.

"No! They're still in there!" she wailed.

Selah's eyes widened as she snapped her gaze back the house. The torch fires had grown tenfold. The interior of the home already glowed with a scarlet shade, black smoke rising from the shattered windows. The woman glanced up to see a growing light from the second floor. The fire was spreading—fast. The building's wooden frame was making the entire structure a giant tinder box.

The woman froze as the woman's screams multiplied into countless voices and the house fire was replaced by an inferno. No… No, not again. Selah gritted her teeth. _Not again_.

Without a second thought, the Templar leaped into the fire, barging through the front door with all her strength. Her shoulder was jarred from the impact and her hearing was filled with the crash of splintering wood, but that was the least of her problems. Immediately Selah's vision was filled with thick haze, the smoke stinging her eyes and filling her lungs, burning her throat. Already the intense heat—a sharp contrast to the outside temperatures—penetrated her thick clothing, forming a thick layer of sweat. The glaring light of the fire—which already filled the entire foyer—blinded her.

Selah coughed as she waved embers from her face, squinting her eyes. Remembering a trick from Shay, the woman pulled her undershirt to cover her nostrils and mouth. It wasn't as efficient as the Master Templar's gas mask, but it would work. She made her way through the flames, hissing as a pocket of fire burned her leg. She almost escaped the foyer when suddenly a crackling sound came from above her. She leaped back just in time as a chunk of the wooden ceiling fell where she had once been.

 _"_ _Selah! Selah!"_

 _"_ _Goddamn you, George Washington!"_

Selah dared to shut her eyes tight, trying to ignore the screams filling her hearing. Despite the heat, she was shivering madly. Fear clawed at her throat, but she forced it back down with as much will as she had. Just when her courage was about to give out, a wail sounded over the roar of the inferno. The Templar widened her eyes and did not hesitate to follow the source, jumping into a doorway into the living room.

Noting the number of silhouettes of furniture beneath the burning flames, Selah guessed it had once been an elegant home, but now it was just a scene of hell. The Templar scanned her squinted eyes across the room to see a small figure huddled in the very corner, just out of reach from the flames. A boy.

He buried his face in his knees, his arms hugging his legs tight. His trembling shoulders were already covered in ash and his clothes were torn. A wall of flame separated Selah from the boy, but she didn't care. Shay had once told her how he had run into a burning building to save his friend and Templar mentor, George Monro, little caring of the consequences. The ex-Assassin decided to follow his example.

She jumped onto a still-standing table to leap over the flames, even though they still licked her burnt legs. She ignored the pain as she rolled across the floor, immediately lunging over to the child. No more than four years of age, he finally glanced up at her, face red and wet from crying. And from the nasty gash on his cheek.

"It's alright, I'm going to get you out of here," she murmured, already scooping him up from under his arms. At first the boy whined in protest at the stranger, but gave in when she put him on her hip, arms protectively wrapped around him.

The Templar turned the way she came, only to feel a wave of heat. She hissed and stepped back, just as another section of the ceiling crashed onto the floor, provoking a terrified scream from the boy. Over the roar of falling debris, Selah heard the splitting sound of shattering glass. She glanced to her left to see the remains of a fracture window, blown out from the scorching heat. Yes!

One eye watching the approaching flames, the woman jumped over to the exit. Using her elbow, she destroyed the remnants of glass, clearing the portal. When she was done, she heard a groaning, splintering sound all around her. Oh, no…

Not hesitating, she leaped out the window with the boy in her arms. She crashed onto the street outside, staying protectively on top of the child as suddenly a deafening crash filled the air. Selah dared to glance over her shoulder to see the house completely engulfed in flames. The second floor completely caved in on itself, destroying the lower level below, only leaving a burning skeleton.

"Jackson!" a voice cried.

"Papa!" the child cried.

Selah released her grip (or more the boy scrambled out of her grasp) as the father raced over, not hesitating to wrap his son in a deadly embrace. The woman was crawling to her feet and almost let out a sigh of relief, until the wife let out another sobbing wail.

"No! Abigail! Where's Abigail?!"

Selah's blood ran cold and every muscle in her body froze. The air in her lungs disappeared and she no longer felt the heart feeling in her chest. It took her several long moments to process the words before she glanced over her shoulder. The inferno touched the black sky above, feasting on the flesh of Abigail.

"Selah, my God, what happened to you?" Haytham exclaimed, leaping to his feet. On any other day, Selah would've asked how he was still awake and still working at such an ungodly hour, but right now she didn't care. She didn't even care that her clothes were ruined with soot and blood, and her skin wasn't much better. She only cared for one thing.

"The Sons of Liberty have gone too far," she snarled. "I am going to kill Sam Adams."

* * *

 **So usually I would run away and brace for the possible onslaught of reviews, but I promised a history lesson, so—**

 **Historical Trivia:**

 **Most people think of Sons of Liberty as a group of America's Founding Fathers organizing secret plots against the Crown, but in reality it was a term referenced to anyone resisting taxes and laws. The term was introduced by Parliament during a debate about the colonists' treatment, and "Sons of Liberty" was used, and so Patriot organizations adopted the name. They protested British rule and taxes, saying they should not be held accountable for taxes which were decided upon without any form of their consent through a representative. Most members were lower-class citizens spread across the colonies and in truth, they were nothing more than a VERY radical group. They were known to publicly tar and feather people, burn Loyalist houses, rioted, and even beheaded and lynched government officials. The most notable victims were Andrew Oliver and Thomas Hutchinson. Many officers were forced to resign their positions in fear.**


	15. Part II: Aftermath

**No, I'm not dead! I profusely apologize for the terrible lateness of this chapter. There is this horrible thing called college that kept me from writing this chapter. And to be completely honest, I wasn't sure for this one, so please tell me your thoughts. For those who are re-reading this story, this is a brand new chapter and so will the next one. Those new, enjoy. And thank you to those who put up with me. After the next couple chapters the update schedule should return to normal.**

* * *

 _F_ _ocus. Balance. Stay sharp._

The words echoed in Selah's mind as she twisted her sword in her hand. Suddenly a flash appeared in front of her eyes. The girl leaned back, narrowly avoiding the blade aimed for her head. She raised her own weapon in defense, having a clang of metal ring across the air. Selah buried her heels in the ground as a weight pushed against her.

"Not bad," Shay hummed, almost nonchalant despite the situation. "But I'm better."

 _Focus. Balance. Stay sharp._

Selah gritted her teeth. "We'll see about that."

Remembering her lessons, the Templar twisted her sword downward, forcing Shay's bastard sword away. Once his chest was exposed, Selah struck. Only for the dagger to get in the way. The woman tried to leap back, but Shay was already capturing her sword with his dual weapons, twisting rapidly.

The rapier flew from her hands.

Selah tried to curse in frustration, but Shay wasn't done yet. In a blink of an eye, he wound his leg around hers and kicked. She fell like a sack of potatoes, the Master Templar falling over her. The small women wheezed as the Irishman's heavy weight pressed against her lungs. Something cold was on her throat.

Usually Shay would take the opportunity to gloat or mock her, but his dark eyes were like stone as he stared down at her. Selah narrowed eyes only glared back up at him.

" _Dammit_ ," she hissed. She lost. _Again_. She repeated the word as she looked up at Shay. "Again."

"No, we're done for the day," Shay sighed, as he leaned back. It removed some of the pressure of her, but he was still straddling her. There was a pause.

"I'm not going to get better if I don't do something," Selah insisted.

"And you will. Tomorrow."

With that, the Master Templar removed his dagger from her neck and sheathed it. Using his sword for leverage, he buried it in the ground and lifted himself up. Selah groaned as she sat up, trying to ignore the soreness in her muscles. They had been doing this all morning, trading blows in only to lead to the same result-Shay throwing her to the ground and winning. Along with her failure.

All Selah had to do was close her eyes, and the horrid night flashed across her eyes. All those soldiers, dead. That poor girl, dead. The Assassin, the Sons of Liberty, still alive. Because she _failed_. Like she failed to save her home. Like she failed to save the native village.

"Go get some rest," Shay ordered softly. "We meet at dawn."

Selah shook her head. "How can I rest, knowing they're still out there?"

"The Sons of Liberty have gone into hiding. Like they always do after one of their stunts. We'll catch them eventually."

"And how many more innocent people will die until then?!"

Selah swallowed. The Sons of Liberty had _murdered_. For no reason other than their own gain. They were the ones that attacked Johnson. They were the ones that attacked the government. They were the ones that killed- The Templar shut her eyes.

Shay noticed, narrowing his eyes in a shadowed look. "You did everything you could."

"It wasn't enough," Selah retorted, shaking her head.

"It never is," Shay agreed. "But it's what you did that counts. You saved lives, Selah, including that boy's. And who knows how many more houses they would have burned after that one. They got what was coming to them."

The young Templar knew her senior was right. She had seen that hunger for revenge in those men's eyes. There was no telling if they planned to slaughter the entire family, and if it would've been enough. But their _faces._

Selah remembered the look of judgement on the parents' faces, as if _she_ was the murderer. Only distraught and hatred was in their eyes.

Ten years. Ten years she had been a Templar. She had spent her entire life learning how to fight. Only when she was needed the most, it was all for nothing.

Suddenly her throat constricted and dried in an instant. A burning sensation came from behind her eyes, but Selah ignored it. She blinked her eyes, making it go away. She wanted to find solace, distract herself from her haunting thoughts. Training was the only way to do that.

When she fought, the world melted away. Only the warrior and her opponent remained, where she only saw the movement of their swords. But she knew Shay was not going to give her that luxury. He was as stubborn as Haytham, perhaps even more so.

That in mind, Selah sheathed her sword and twisted around, stalking away. Apparently Shay had noticed her episode, because he called after her.

"Selah!"

The Templar ignored him and kept storming towards headquarters.

"Selah, stop! That's an order!" Shay repeated, putting authority behind his voice.

Selah hissed. She hated when he did that. Shay cared little that he was a Master Templar of the Inner Sanctum. He only pulled rank when he wanted to annoy her, as part of his amusement. Not in a laughing mood, the woman whirled around, mouth open to retort.

She never had the chance as suddenly a black mass materialized before her. Her instincts kicked in when she realized Shay had tricked her. Selah braced to attack, only to feel her arms pinned to her sides. Her face was pressed against Shay's solid chest as he placed his strong hands on her back. Selah only squeaked in his embrace. She felt the man's hot breath on her ear.

"Stop blaming yourself, darlin'," Shay whispered. His tone was soft and assuring, a sharp contrast to the harsh voice he used only a moment ago. His strokes were gentle unlike his brutal beatings in their training.

Selah shut her eyes tight. She remembered. She remembered the last time Shay had held her like this. He dragged her away from the village as it burned. From George Washington. Because he knew nothing could be done.

Selah's body began to tremble. She held onto Shay's coat to anchor herself. Her eyes burned, but no tears came.

* * *

Shay stalked down the cold corridors of the Templar headquarters, head bowed. Selah was not the only one that kept reliving the night of the rebels' attack. He had gotten Selah's warning along with Johnson and Pitcairn, but instead of joining her, he remained with his fellow Templars. They left the soldiers and Selah to handle the rebels and followed behind. After all, it was only rebels.

That's what Shay thought. Until he saw the _Assassin_ , mocking them. Johnson and Pitcairn were quick to excuse it. It was simply a rebel that got creative, taking old stories from the Seven Years' War of phantom killers to provoke fear in the soldiers. But the Assassin Hunter knew better.

It had to be a survivor of the Colonial Purge. It was the only explanation. Shay saw how he fought. Quick and efficient, just like a trained Assassin. Not the sort of training a lame, weak Achilles could provide. But who the hell was he?

Shay knew almost everyone in the Brotherhood, but he didn't recognize that one. The shadow of their hood hide their face and the robes looked borrowed. Fair enough, it was dark and he watched the Assassin from quite a distance away. And besides, he hadn't exactly been present when new-and the last-recruits came in. In truth, it could have been anyone in the Colonies.

Shay couldn't help the bubble of rage that formed in his chest. He dedicated his life as a Templar to rid of the last Assassin from America. How did he miss one? The Assassin Hunter balled a fist.

It was just another thing he had to fix.

Sighing, the man continued on until he reached Haytham's study. Not feeling patient, he gave the door a single knock before barging into the room. He half-expected the formal man to be irritated at the rudeness, but was instead greeted with Haytham slouched over his desk, a hand cupped over his eyes.

"Long day?" Shay inquired. Haytham groaned.

"Whatever gave you that impression?" the Brit answered with venomous sarcasm, looking up. "The supposedly dead Assassin trained by our supposedly defeated enemy who personally destroyed our supposedly secured ships?"

"Well, he had a hundred rebels with him, but aye."

Haytham growled and shook his head. There was a silence between the two men for a long time, neither knowing how to continue the conversation. It was Shay who decided to break it.

"Want me to look into it?" he asked.

"No," the Grandmaster refused. In an instant, the tired old man vanished and authority returned to his limbs. Haytham leaned back in his chair, chin raised high. "Most likely just an old veteran from the war. Meaning he's slow and very sloppy. We'll catch him when he makes his last mistake." There was a pause as the Templar lapsed his fingers together in thought. "I only wonder what lured him out of ten years of hiding."

Shay wasn't surprised the Templar reached the same conclusion as him. The Irishman shrugged.

"Probably was inspired by the rebels," he guessed.

"Explains why he was with them," Haytham agreed.

Still, it was a bold move for an Assassin to reveal himself like that. Assassins worked in the shadows, away from prying eyes and finished their work before anyone knew what was going on. Whether it was effective or cowardly, was based on opinion. Maybe he didn't expect to be seen by his enemies, but didn't seem to care when he was caught. Even though, he had to be aware that dumping a financial source of the Templar Order would cause attention. It made Shay wonder.

"And what about the tea?" the man asked.

Haytham scoffed. "It won't kill Bostonians to be a little thirsty. We have other finances to depend on. If anything, tonight is a success. King George will not stand for this type of disobedience. Now we can start pushing towards an independent country."

"Still, Johnson must be beside himself."

"Not really. Simply a minor setback. He's already making preparations to return to John's Town."

Shay raised his eyebrows. He expected the trip to canceled after this fiasco. Then again, once Johnson swore a commitment, not even God could tear him away from it.

"Another business opportunity?" the Irishman guessed.

"To meet his consort," Haytham corrected. "There have been continued reports of frontiersmen trespassing on Mohawk land. Already there has been more than a few squabbles. Johnson's wife has agreed to mediate between the colonists and the Iroquois to allow the Colonies more land. That should ease tension, for a while."

Shay nodded, not commenting how quickly his superior had changed the subject, already thinking of the next order of business. Typical Haytham. The Master Templar wisely decided to follow along.

"Very well. Which wife is it?" he asked.

"The Mohawk one."

"...You have to be more specific."

"Just do your job. Take Selah with you… when she gets some sense back into herself."

There was a pause as both men pondered about their turned protégé. Then Haytham asked quietly, stroking his knuckles, "How is she, by the way?"

"Disappointed in herself, more than anything," Shay replied, shifting his weight. Even though he had tried to console her, something he had never been strong in, it seemed to little effect on the usually rebellious girl. Selah had vanished into the stronghold the moment she slipped away, most likely locking herself in her room. The Grandmaster shook his head and leaned back in his chair.

"I would assume she would have more confidence by now."

"Men died under her watch. She has yet to adjust to authority."

"And here I thought a new position would be a good experience for her."

Shay lowered his head. "Things have haven't gone smoothly since I lost that damned ship down near Cape Cod."

Haytham cocked an eyebrow. He thought he heard something about that. Griffin's Wharf was expecting four ships—not three.

"Which furthers my point," the Grandmaster commented. "Though, tell me, what was the name of this ship?"

"The _William_."

* * *

Days in Fort George grew colder, and ever shorter. The denizens of the military complex, along with the rest of New York, shut their homes and crowded around a lit hearth. Meanwhile outside, a layer of snow formed on the ground and even on buildings. Most days were clouded, hiding the sun away and leaving the world in a gloom. And while the rest of the Colonies hid in their oven-like houses, Selah ignored the chill in the air.

The Templar spent the better part of her days in her personal training grounds. The temperatures had dropped and the cold was taking its toll on her exerted body. Her limbs were sore and her shoulders trembled, despite the fact her skin was covered in sweat. The woman's throat was sore and raw, and her lungs were not much better.

It wasn't the cold that finally brought the Templar in, but Haytham's summons. The poor lad sent to catch her was wrapped in his hat and oversized jacket, shoulders hunched against the cold. Selah pitied him and allowed the man to escort her back to headquarters. She knew not to keep the Grandmaster waiting, anyway. But now she drew nearer to his study, her stomach knotted.

She hadn't seem him since that night. Selah wouldn't be surprised if Haytham already had his network of spies collecting every word across the Colonies—searching for the Sons of Liberty or anyone involved in the Boston Tea Party. Or rather, _controlling_ those words.

There hadn't been any sign of the rebels or the Assassin ever since the attack on Griffin's Wharf. Instead, there was only talk. Citizens speaking up against the Crown, soldiers abusing their power, the papers demanding punishment, Parliament signing laws. There were rumors that ships were sent from England, ordered by King George himself.

A sound ahead of Selah interrupted her from her thoughts. She glanced up, finally noticing she had made it to Haytham's study. But she was not the first.

The Templar went stiff as Johnson stepped out of the doorway, adjusting his clothing. He looked older, even though several days had gone by from the rebellion. The Master Templar's eyes were dark and his shoulders were slumped. His usually neat hair was disheveled and several new gray strands had appeared. Selah had half a thought to turn back the way she came, but it was too late when William spotted her.

"Ah, Selah, I didn't see you there," the man hummed, trying to use his charismatic tone, but the woman could still hear tiredness in his voice.

"Master Johnson," Selah only greeted. What could she say to him? He had trusted her with his company, and she almost brought it to ruin in a single night. No, there was nothing she could say.

He moved towards her and the Templar realized he was leaving. She tried to shuffle past him, but stopped when the man placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Understand I don't blame you," William murmured softly. "You did the best you could have done, and you did well. I still hope you wish to accompany me to John's Town in the summer."

Selah swallowed and forced herself to speak, only to say lamely, "Of course, sir."

The Master Templar nodded with a ghost of his charming smiles. He gave her a gentle squeeze and stepped away, slipping out of sight. Selah glanced after him before turning back to the door.

Some part of her wasn't surprised that William so easily forgave her. He was compassionate before anything else, and he would always treat her with fondness. Still, his words didn't assure Selah as much as he must have hoped. Yes, the weight on her shoulders lifted, but they were still heavy, and her stomach knotted with uneasiness. There was someone else she had to deal with, who was much less forgiving.

Selah knocked on Haytham's door and didn't dare move until he gave her permission to enter. The Grandmaster looked up the second the door clicked close behind her.

"Ah, there you are," he hummed, "for a moment I thought you finally froze yourself out there. If I didn't know any better, I would think you were trying to do so on purpose."

"I'm only training," Selah retorted. His tone reminded her of a parent scolding a child. She was too old for lectures, even from Haytham. But she kept her mouth shut.

"Yes, quite a substantial amount. Is there anything I should be aware of? You're not planning to start a fight, are you?"

The man's sarcasm was grating on Selah's nerves. How could he be so mocking, considering everything that happened? The woman knew the Brit well enough to realize what he was doing. Haytham always knew just what buttons to press. He was baiting her for a reaction. Selah would not give him the satisfaction of giving him one.

"With Assassins on the loose, I would think you would want me prepared," the Templar replied, keeping her tone even. Haytham frowned.

"The Assassin is Shay's responsibility," the Grandmaster retorted. "Yours is your loyalty to the Order. And considering you killed half a dozen men in a single night, I assume you are prepared enough."

"Those who lost their lives would say differently."

Haytham's eyes darkened as he crossed his arms. His next words were devoid of emotion. "A necessary sacrifice, for the greater good of the Order."

Selah felt anger race through her veins at the remark. "And what about that poor girl, Haytham?! Was her 'sacrifice' for the greater good?"

The Grandmaster ignored her question. "Parliament will see act as an open sign of rebellion." Selah rolled her eyes and turned, even as the man went on. "They will send troops to impose martial law. Our influence in the military will allow us to control the populous and shift the Colonies in our favor."

Selah shut her eyes and shook her head. "And will you burn an entire village to do it?"

"...If it must be done."

The ex-Assassin thought of the raid on the native village, defenseless, but it was not the village she meant. Selah gritted her teeth. She remembered. She remembered that night as vividly as if it happened a moment ago. Waking up in the middle of the night, after celebrating her new age of adulthood, only to find her village in flames. Both Assassins and civilians were slaughtered. Her comrades. Her friends. Her family. And then there was James Crawford, her mentor, who died in her arms.

And it was not the British army that led the attack. No, it was the Templars. And she shared the room with the same that had ordered the destruction of her home.

Selah knew she shouldn't be surprised if Haytham was willing to do it again. He destroyed the Caribbean Assassins the same way he destroyed the Colonial Brotherhood. He made a vow to uphold the principles of the Order and annihilate its enemies. Even if it was against his father's dying wish.

After all, Haytham was his own man.

A deep sigh broke Selah's thoughts.

"But I believe we both don't want it to come to that," Haytham continued. His voice was in a low tone, as if he had aged in just a few minutes. "Which is why I _need_ you, Selah. To serve the living instead of brooding over the dead."

Brooding? Selah could never understand how Haytham could make her feel like such a small child with just a few words. James was the same way. She hated it.

The woman gritted her teeth as she remembered the family's look of betrayal.

"You didn't see their faces," she pointed out, hissing it through her teeth. Haytham tilted his head.

"No, but I can see yours," he murmured thoughtfully.

Was it so obvious? Did Haytham notice her eyes were burning and her throat was caving in on itself? Did he know her felt like lead?

"I couldn't—" Selah had to stop and force a painful swallow. "I couldn't _save_ her, Haytham. Just like I couldn't save-"

The woman was too busy trying to force out the words, she didn't notice the Brit rising from his chair. Instead, all she saw was the face of James, covered in his own blood, as the life drained from his eyes. She joined the Templars to prevent such a mistake from happening again. And she _failed_.

Selah flinched when suddenly felt a hot breath on her neck and a presence over her shoulder. Haytham was so close she could feel his lips moving against her ear.

"Dead men cannot be saved, my dear," he whispered. "But you can avenge them with your blade, not with pity."

Selah's heart twisted, but his tone was not scolding. Suddenly soft fingers brushed against her cheek, followed by the warmth of Haytham's palm. The Templar turned her gaze to meet his. The man's stone eyes were dark and cold, but it was not aimed at her. They were a result of a life full of pain and betrayal, forsaken by those he loved most. Revenge was all Haytham knew.

Now Selah knew why he was what he was.

"Only then you can make their death mean something," the Grandmaster finished.

The young woman didn't realize a single tear had escaped until she felt the gentle brush of Haytham's thumb. Without warning the boulder on Selah's shoulders turned into a mountain. She didn't just fail her duty to the people. She failed the Order. She failed _him_.

"I'm so sorry, Haytham," Selah sobbed.

She didn't even notice her voice breaking as she captured Haytham in a tight embrace. The man didn't even flinch at her action, as if he was expecting it, instead wrapping his own arms around her. Suddenly Selah was the little girl from ten years ago, as the last of her defenses broke.

A strange sound came from her throat and she suddenly became frigid. She buried in the Templar's chest for warmth, only for her shoulders to violently tremble.

"It's alright, my dear," Haytham hushed. "It's alright."

This time Selah couldn't stop the tears that flowed from her eyes or stop the strangled sobs from her chest. She had feared Haytham's wrath this entire time, but he never held blame towards her. The only blame was against herself.

Selah did not know how long she cried. Maybe only for a few minutes. Maybe for over an hour. She only registered Haytham's warmth hands stroking her back and her long hair, occasionally murmuring reassuring words that were only swallowed by her wails. He held her, until her cries were replaced by pitiful hiccups and her shoulders could only quiver pathetically.

"There, there," Haytham murmured softly.

Selah didn't remember what happened after that. Either she fell asleep from exhaustion or her mind blurred her memories. But when she blinked her eyes open, she found herself in a unfamiliar place. The room was dark, only illuminated by a couple of small candles. Selah felt soft silk brushing against her skin-her coat and shoes removed-and her head was pushed against something soft.

It took her a full moment to realize she was in a bed. _Haytham_ 's bed.

With a small gasp, Selah jolted up in surprise.

"Decided to return to the living, hmm?" Haytham hummed, not batting her an eye. He was sitting at his in desk in the corner of the room, signing something with his quill. His own coat was removed and he was instead in his nightshirt.

"How long was I asleep?" Selah moaned, rubbing her eyes. Her eyelids were crusted and the woman had to wipe them clean, only for the action to take away what little energy she had. Her throat was sore and her limbs were heavy, her mind fogged with something she did not know.

"Merely a few hours."

Only a few? It felt like she slept a century. She couldn't help but feel slight embarrassment, that Haytham had to care for her because she was weak and once again she was in his bed.

"I thought you against favoritism, Haytham," the young woman murmured, snorting and forcing a smile. Even that hurt.

"I don't favor insubordinates," the Grandmaster corrected, still not looking up. "Now go to sleep."

Some part of Selah knew she should return to her proper quarters, but her body refused to fathom the idea. Instead, it favored Haytham's idea much more, and to forget the events over the past week were all a dream. With that, the woman collapsed back onto the pillow, burying herself in Haytham's expensive sheets. She thought she heard a noise that sounded like a chuckle, but she didn't feel like confirming it.

Instead, she closed her eyes and let the heavy spell of sleep surround her mind. But she didn't have that luxury.

Selah jolted as suddenly Haytham's door swung open.

"Master Kenway, it's Wolcott, I've—" Lee sputtered, but cut off mid-sentence.

The Master Templar froze like a deer in a light when he noticed Haytham's other protege. Too tired to care or even comment, Selah just sent him a sideways glare with one slitted eye. She swore she saw the grown man's cheeks redden, but she didn't have a chance to be sure as Haytham spoke up.

"Master Lee, I believe this can wait until morning?" the Grandmaster drawled, a hint of authority—and something dangerous that Selah did not know—in his voice.

Lee seemed to fumble for a replay for a full moment until giving up with a hasty nod of his head. With that, the man vanished from the room with a slam of the silence returned to the room, Selah closed her eyes. Her sleep disturbed, it took longer for the unconsciousness to return.

She heard Haytham make a grunt as he stretched his stiff muscles and let out a tired yawn. There was a creak of a chair and the scratch of wood against wood. A moment later Selah felt a tap on her knee.

"Move, if you please," the Brit said in a polite tone, but it almost sounded like an order.

Automatically Selah rolled over to her other side, giving Haytham enough room still lay beside her with a respectable distance. There was a shift and a dip in the bed from the man's heavy weight as he collapsed onto the mattress.

They had shared a few times before-but that was all. There was nothing sexual in their relationship-and never will be. Haytham gave her kindness, and Selah accepted it.

He could have killed her, along with the rest of the Brotherhood, but he didn't. He could have killed her when she proved stubborn, but he didn't. Instead, he protected her. Not only had he endangered his position as Grandmaster for her, but his life. In some ways, he treated her like a father would have.

Selah felt a light touch on her brow. The loose strand of hair tickling her cheek disappeared, followed by warm fingers.

"Good night, Selah," Haytham whispered, his voice already in a low tone of tiredness.

Selah didn't have a chance to reply, as suddenly the darkness claimed her and she fell in a dreamless sleep.


	16. Part II: Friends and Enemies

**Sorry for this lateness of the chapter. Weekly updates should return to normal after this, as I already have the next several chapters mostly written, but they just need revision. However, I still got a really busy schedule, so I apologize if there is a delay between updates. Thanks for sticking with me!**

* * *

"Will this suffice to your liking?" Connor asked, pulling his steed to a halt.

"This, this is perfect, Connor! Thank you!"

The teenager nodded in approval as he glanced at the couple beside him. The man was older, with a full dark beard and a rugged face. His shoulders were broad and his arms were toned with muscles after years of labor. His wife seemed younger, with flawless skin and a round face. Like her husband, her arms were muscled, though not as defined.

It was obvious they came from a modest living. Although clean, their clothes were wrinkled and the man's white undershirt was darkened with age. His vest had been better days, covered in dirt and blood (though the latter was partially Connor's fault). He wore a straw hat to protect his eyes from the harsh sun, but it had been torn from constant use. The woman wore a plain dress with a rumpled top and a flowing blue skirt, held together by a red sash. She wore a cloth around her head, bundling up her hair. A touch Connor had never seen before, but noticed it was efficient for her life as a farmer.

It just so happened that Connor came across a lonely farm in the frontier—salted and raided by soldiers searching for rebels. They were in the middle of interrogating the owners—a man and a woman—while slaughtering their cattle, when the Assassin came upon them. The soldiers' paid for their crime with their lives, but the damage was already done.

The couple introduced themselves as Warren and Prudence—and they were without a home. So Connor offered them one, and even escorted them to the part of the valley that would be perfect for their new farm. A series of clear fields spread before them, lined with lush green grass that gleamed in the sun. The land was fertile from the herds of elk that passed through this part of the valley, making the perfect soil for crops. A farm would mean a steady source of food and trade for the people of the valley, and so a better livelihood.

The Homestead was growing larger. Myriam accepted Connor's invitation and had decided to stay within the valley. She established several hunting blinds across the forest, as well as her own cabin. The woman was independent and the two hunters even made agreement to share their game, but the others were a different story. Lance's home had finished construction and needed resources. Godfrey and Terry had their families, and their boys were growing. Then there were the men that lived by the docks…

Suddenly the thought reminded Connor of another resident that lived by the cove. He slowly wheeled his stallion around, glancing over his shoulder at the new residents.

"There is a mill by the river," the teenager told them. "The pair of men there will give you the lumber you require."

"We'll need a lot of it," Warren warned. "We need pens to hold the animals."

"You can store them in the stables for now."

Automatically his horse snorted, as if in protest. When he glanced at Warren and Prudence's small collection of farm animals, the only ones that survived the soldiers' raid, a bull stared at him disdainfully. However, their owners could be no more grateful and nodded eagerly.

"We are in your debt, Mr. Connor," Prudence spoke up in her low and smooth voice.

"There is no debt between us," Connor quickly corrected. "Your lives deserve a change."

The couple exchanged smiles with knowing eyes.

"Yes, I suppose we do," the woman agreed.

Their dark skin, which was already covered with sweat, shone in the harsh sunlight. Warren explained they had been on a farm their entire lives. They had met on their former master's plantation, but they had dreamed of heading one all of their own. Warren and Prudence were free now, even if society thought otherwise.

Connor squeezed the sides of his stallion, heading towards the Homestead, and to deliver to news of his journey to his boorish mentor.

* * *

"How did it go?" Achilles asked.

The old man was standing on the edge of the cliff, leaning on his cane as he looked at the sunset over the harbor. Connor paused beside him, winded from his long journey from Boston through the frontier—along with his recent dash across the valley. Achilles's question was a welcome as any.

"It is done," the young Assassin assured. "Johnson is no longer a threat. I have also brought a couple from the frontier. They wish to settle a farm in the valley."

Although Connor meant for it to be good news and to change the subject, his mentor ignored the latter statement.

"So Johnson is dead?" The question made the boy glance down and shift his weight.

"No… He retreated when we destroyed the tea."

For a long time Achilles was perfectly silent, staring at the horizon. Then…

"You should have killed him." Connor was quick to defend himself.

"I did not see it necessary. With the tea gone, he has no assets to use against my people."

"Don't underestimate the Templar Order," Achilles snapped. "They always find a way to hatch another scheme."

The teenager shook his head, disliking being chided. There was so much bloodshed that night… But he doubted any of it will be mentioned. The army will use their "propaganda" to hide their shameful defeat and the Sons of Liberty wouldn't even speak of their act. In fact, the Assassin wouldn't be surprised if the act of rebellion would be remembered as an uneventful one. But that was not the case, especially as the boy remembered what else occurred at the party.

"I met Selah," Connor announced. Immediately Achilles stiffened. _Finally_ he looked away from the sunset, setting Connor with a narrowed stare.

"And?" the former Assassin pressed.

"She knows about us."

"What have you done, child? First thing she will do is warn Haytham, and the Templars will come for both our heads."

"I will not let them."

"You are so—"

"Who is Shay?" Connor cut off.

Achilles flinched, becoming silent longer than before. Before the apprentice could read the mentor's expression, Achilles looked down, hiding beneath his hat. However, the boy did not fail to notice his hands shaking, even as his knuckles turned pale from clutching his cane.

"Where did you learn that name?" the old man asked in a hoarse voice. Connor was surprised by his reaction, but he was honest.

"I met him when I was hunting in the forest one day," the boy admitted. "I saw him again during the destruction of the tea. He is a Templar, is he not?"

Achilles paused before saying, " _The_ Templar. He was the one that aided your father in destroying the Brotherhood. He personally killed dozens of Assassins, as well as my entire inner circle. He is the Assassin Hunter."

Connor was silent, having the words sink in. A killer of killers. A dangerous man, indeed. Achilles straightened with his cane and turned, adding over his shoulder, "Which means he will kill you when he has the chance. You must be careful. And I suggest you won't be as sparing as you were with Johnson."

Connor looked up from staring at the ground to see the old man hobbling away. It was the boy's turn to stare into the sunset, his stomach twisting.

Since the moment he left Boston, he had been replaying the party in his mind over and over. He had tried to convince himself the man he saw with the Templars was not Shay. He tried to excuse the trick of the light—and in truth, the man at the docks was nothing like the respectful traveler he had met. But Connor never forgot a face. Looking into that Templar's eyes reminded him of their first meeting. There was no doubt that was the same man. And the thought made him ill.

The man he was mere _inches_ from, was the same man that destroyed the Brotherhood. Unconsciously, the boy reached up to his neck, wrapping his fingers around a bear tooth necklace. The same one Shay gave him.

Connor truly wondered if he made the right decision sparing him.

* * *

"Both of you! Enough!"

As if Connor didn't have enough to worry about. Never mind Templars, redcoats, or treacherous Assassins coming for his head. It was Godfrey and Terry that were his main concern.

The Assassin stood between the pair of lumberers, holding them at arm's length as the men were swiping claws at each other. Godfrey's nose was bloody and crooked and Terry's eye was already turning dark. Thank the Spirits the Mohawk warrior came when he did, before they could seriously hurt each other.

The lumberers were oblivious to Connor's presence as they tried to attack each other, spitting curses and insults. Finally the Assassin had enough.

Acting quickly, he dug his heels in the soil. He let his arm go limp, allowing Godfrey to take two huge steps forward. Before the man could repay his broken nose or wringe Terry's neck, Connor slammed his broad shoulder into the lumberer's chest.

Godfrey gasped as the air was knocked out of his lungs and he stumbled backwards from the impact. However, the giant of a man was too clumsy to regain his balance and fell on his back with flailing arms. Somehow seeing his friend so easily knocked to the ground spurred Terry on.

The lumberer lunged forward, but now Connor could give him his full attention. The Assassin gripped both the man's arms and pinned them to his sides. When Terry gave a growl of protest, the large teenager moved to form a wall between the two men. He then gave Terry a single shove, also sending him to the ground.

"Stop! There is no need for this!"

Connor held a hand towards each of them, braced to play the game to restrain them. He glared between the two, his dark eyes narrowed. Godfrey was the first to his feet with a heave, pointing an accusing finger at Terry.

"If you'd only listened to me, none of this would have happened!" he bellowed.

"I don't need your stinking help!" Terry fired back, jumping back onto his feet.

"What happened?" Connor demanded. Whatever was between them would resolve much sooner if he knew what was going on.

"Oh, come off it, Terry! I'm fine!" Terry's wife, Diana cried.

She stood on the porch of her family's home, holding the shoulders of her son. Katherine, Godfrey's wife, was also there, her children clinging to their hips. Katherine looked near tears; Diana looked plain annoyed.

"This _idiot_ told me the other night he was heading home," Godfrey explained, but his voice was still in a vicious snarl. "Only I find out he went drinking into the night while some man tried to invade my home and take my wife!"

Connor snapped his gaze towards the man. "What?"

How did he not hear of this? Terry yelled back before he had a chance to ask.

"And where were _you_?" Terry accused. "Probably dead to the world in the middle of the woods, aftering helping yourself to a few pints."

"Well _somebody_ had to move all those logs, after you ran off to save yourself some work!"

Without warning, the two lunged towards each other again. In a blink of an eye, Connor wedged between them, opening a palm to each.

" _Enough!_ " he roared. Apparently his deep voice had a greater effect than he thought, because Godfrey and Terry came to a halt. The Assassin between them. "When did this happen?"

"The other night, Connor," Katherine stammered. "Someone was at our door just after we went to bed."

"Why did no one retrieve me?" the teenager asked, turning to the woman to address her.

The Homesteaders knew of the ever looming threat of bandits, and they knew to inform Connor if there were any incidents. Katherine frowned, looking guilty. Diana came to her rescue.

"We didn't know if he was still lurking about," she explained. "We couldn't leave the children alone in the dead of night."

"They wouldn't have to be alone if—" Godfrey started, but was silenced by Connor's aggressive hush.

"He?" the native echoed.

"We heard him shouting," Diana explained. "It was certainly a man."

Connor narrowed his eyes. If this happened only last night, then it could mean that man was still in the valley. Crossing it's entire length—especially if one didn't know the land—took almost an entire day of travel. And if he tried to invade the lumberers' homes, it meant the brigand was looking for loot. And there was plenty of it in the valley. Including the manor…

"Do you know where he went?" the Assassin interrogated. He needed to find the thief, and quickly. Katherine was the one that answered.

"I looked out the window after the shouting stopped. I saw him run into the woods over there," she pointed at a direction over Connor's shoulder.

Connor was already turning at her words. As he stalked away, he called back to the Homesteaders, "Return to your homes. I will handle this."

When he noticed Terry and Godfrey open their mouths with a sputter, he emphasized, "You two have a family. Take care of them."

Reminding the pair of pride men of their dear treasures seemed to knock some sense into them. They went their separate ways, ushering their wives and children with them. But how they continued to send glares at each other and had their broad shoulders squared told that the fight was still fresh on their mind. As Connor slipped into the woods, he made a note that he would have to sort it out between them later. Now, he had an interloper to find.

As soon as the smell of sawdust was replaced by the scents of the forest, Connor reverted to his hunting instincts. If the thief left in a hurry, then he would be clumsy. He would have certainly left a trail.

The native hunter knelt close to the ground, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the soil for traces of the stranger. For the first few feet, he found nothing. Only a print left by a deer hoof and the turds of a racoon. Then, suddenly, he noticed it, as clearly as the sun in the sky.

A footprint. It was deep and the edges were smooth, signalling it came from a boot. Connor's eyes narrowed into slits. The footprint was too small to be his or the lumberers', but it was too large to be the children's or the women's. It couldn't be Myriam. She wouldn't hunt so close to the villagers' homes. Connor's heart quickened when he realized it belonged to his prey.

After that, the trail came together. A broken branch, crunched leaves, a dislodged rock. Yes, it was certainly someone running through the woods, no doubt in fear of being caught. Connor didn't straighten once as he followed the thief's footsteps. All was silent, only the sound of the birds chirping above the Assassin. The teenager didn't notice it, nor even his own breathing or his own footsteps. Until…

Connor came to a halt as there was suddenly a snap ahead of him. All of his muscles froze as the brush shifted, following by slight crunches of leaves and twigs. His heart fluttered. Footsteps.

The boy looked down, and sure enough, the same bootprint from before was right under his nose. And it was headed in the same direction of the noise. He had found his prey.

Silently, Connor shifted his weight on his haunches, like a cougar preparing to pounce. He flicked his wrist, the hidden blade slipping from its sheathe in a whisper. The Assassin wrapped his fingers around the blade, pivoting it until the hilt of the blade ejected from its sheathe and was in his palm. Connor breathed through his nose and closed his eyes, sharpening his hearing. Now he had to wait for the right—

Suddenly there was another snap of a twig, right in front of him. Connor snapped his eyes open. Now!

With a roar, the Mohawk warrior charged forward, raising his blade over his head. He barged through the brush with reckless abandon, descending upon his prey. Only for his hunt to let out an annoyed protest.

"HEY!"

Connor halted immediately, the muscles of his leg pulling in protest. In the same movement, he twisted body and retracted his weapon. He felt the strain in his knee, prompting him to correct his action. Which resulted in him crashing onto the ground in a clumsy heap, letting out a wheeze at the awkward failure.

"What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!" Myriam cried, her tone a cross between fury and fear.

Connor opened his mouth to answer, but only when he did, the teenager coughed as dirt flew into his mouth. He thanked the Spirits that Achilles wasn't here. The old man would surely be disappointed to see his years of guidance squandered.

Trying to save what dignity he had left, Connor brushed the dirt of his face, sputtering, and quickly climbed to his feet. Only when he turned to face his friend, the woman was still glaring at him with raised palms, questioning him.

"You're… not a man," the Assassin realized, still coughing. Myriam cocked an eyebrow at the random statement.

"No, I'm not," she agreed. "I'm a woman, remember? Or is there something you would like to point out to me, Connor?'

Connor felt his cheeks burning from his embarrassing fall, but now they were reddening when he realized Myriam failed to understand his meaning.

"No. I mean—the thief," he tried to clarify, but the huntress's eyes were still squinted in confusion.

"What?"

The teenager sighed as he finally caught his breath and tried again. "Someone attacked the Godfrey and Terry's home last night. I believe the perpetrator is still in the valley."

Finally Myriam's eyes cleared in understanding and she straightened. "Well, I noticed that, too. But I'm not going around trying to kill the first 'man' I come across."

Connor truly wondered if she could see the red hue of his dark skin. He tried to cover his mistake up by asking her, "What do you mean by 'noticed?'"

"Well, I am quite certain this was in one piece last time I checked it," Myriam answered, pointing at the snare trap in the center of the clearing. So that was what she was inspecting.

Connor observed it as well. It was the same one he taught Myriam, the ones his village used. It was a bundle of rope, bound to a sapling buried into the earth and the wooden trigger. Except, the sapling was dislodged, the trigger was broken, the noose was torn apart. Or _cut_. The ends of the rope were frayed, but too straight to be caused by the chewing of an animal. No animal could gnaw themselves free anyway, nor completely destroy the trap's trigger.

"It seems our friend failed to notice your trap," Connor observed.

"At least it caught something. Shame it couldn't hold it," Myriam sighed.

"Come. He couldn't could gotten far."

Just then, a _crack_ filled the air. Both hunters jumped and reached for their weapons, recognizing the sound. A rifle.

"That's what I think it was, was it?" Myriam drawled.

"Let's go," Connor ordered, already headed toward the direction of the noise.

The hunters kept silent and low to the ground. The sound didn't seem far off. Nor was the cursing.

"Just my luck," a distant voice groaned. "Now what am I going to do?"

Connor waved his hand to the woods beside Myriam. The huntress understood and nodded, melting into the foliage. Meanwhile, the native kept his current course. He paused at the top of a stone ravine, a clearing spread out before him. Along with the thief.

The young man didn't look as rough as most bandits from their frontier. His brown hair was cut short and neat, with a shadow of a beard across his cheek. His clothes were in fair condition, as well. Leather moccasins swallowed the man's brown trousers. A worn, ivory coat that seemed too large covered his shoulders, but it didn't seem to have any damage. Connor took notice of the rifle clutched in the man's hand and the hunting knife clipped to his belt.

He also took notice of the trail of blood at the trespasser's feet, no doubt left by the animal he had shot can failed to kill.

Fury filled Connor's chest. The thief failed to steal from someone's home, so now he tried to steal from their forest. Apparently he did not get the message from the last trespassers. The Assassin supposed it was his duty to educate him.

Not hesitating another moment, the teenager leaped from his perch and landed in the basin with a thud. A thud the thief heard. The man whirled around, only to let out a yell of fright when he was greeted with a cloaked Mohawk warrior charging towards him. Connor rammed into him like a raging elk, sending him to the ground. The thief wheezed, but he was denied air when Connor settled his weight on his chest. Once his prey was pinned, the Assassin flicked his wrist and held the hidden blade at the thief's throat.

"Who are you?" Connor demanded in a dark tone.

"C-Clipper," his prisoner choked. "Wil-Wilkinson."

Connor honestly wasn't expecting an answer. He meant his words to be intimidating more than anything. Now that his prey up close, the Assassin realized the thief was young—maybe even the same age as him. Perhaps younger.

There was a rustle on the edge of the clearing and Myriam appeared, her own rifle in hand and aimed at the thief.

"And what brought you here to our part of the woods, Mr. Wilkinson?" she asked, voice filled with false politeness.

"I-I heard rumors," the boy, Clipper, stammered. Connor finally caught on that his awkward speech wasn't caused by lack of air, but fear. "That the game was good here. For t-trading."

"Have you also heard that outsiders are not welcome here?" Connor snarled. He pressed his blade to the thief's throat to emphasize his words.

Automatically the boy shrunk in the native's grip and his skin turned paler despite the bright sun. It seemed it was finally dawning on him that he made a mistake coming here and that he was caught red-handed.

"I-I thought the lands were open! I even tried that hunting cabin by the river!"

"That was a house, you idiot!" Myriam barked. "You probably gave the women there a fright near death!"

"He did," Connor growled. Clipper winced under his captor's grip and he frowned. For a moment, he legitimately looked guilty.

"I thought it was just a hunting cabin someone set up. I tried looking for the owners, but no one answered. All of a sudden this huge bear came after me and I bolted."

Connor blinked. "Bear?"

"While I was knocking on the door, something huge jumped out of the bush, roaring like a beast. I didn't give it a second look."

Connor wanted to slap his palm onto his face. "That was Godfrey…"

The boy blinked. "That was man?"

"So you just thought you go catch yourself a couple kills until you find someone to ask permission?" Myriam spat, once again aiming her rifle at his head.

The poor boy flinched and Connor swore he could hear him whimper. The Assassin didn't blame Myriam's rage, considering the same feud nearly got her killed.

"W-well… since I thought the land was open for free hunting—"

Myriam's snort cut him off. "And how did you get that silly idea?"  
"William Johnson!"

The name sent a ripple across Connor's body. What? It had been weeks since the Assassin heard anything about the Master Templar. Adams even told him that the businessman had vanished after the incident in Griffin's Wharf.

" _No doubt hiding from the public eye in shame,"_ the rebel leader had sneered.

Connor was hoping Johnson would stay in hiding considerably longer. He remembered Achilles's warning. Was this a scheme, then? Did Johnson send the thief?

"Is he your patron?" the Assassin interrogated.

"W-what? No!" Clipper cried. "Word is he's petitioning for a grant to allow more land for hunting."

Connor remembered the group of trespassers he dealt with when he first encountered Myriam. They were under the same pretense, that Johnson had bought the valley. Apparently this boy had heard the same rumors.

The thought made the native furious. It wasn't just bandits, then. Templars. It wasn't enough for them to rid of their enemies. But now they intended to use the Assassins' land for their own profit. Land that still belonged to the Brotherhood. And what if it wasn't just the valley…

"Who is he petitioning to?" Connor asked. He leaned back slightly and removed the blade from his prisoner's skin, but kept it near the boy's throat and kept his heavy weight to keep him in place.

Clipper blinked and gave his captor a perplexed look. "He's meeting with the Iroquois."

Connor felt Myriam's gaze boring into him. He wondered if she could see the tremble of his limbs or if he was just a frozen statue to her. He wondered if she saw the burning fury that coursed through his veins or did he seem cold. But in the end, he supposed it didn't matter.

Only one thing did.

The Assassin retracted his hidden blade and stood up, finally releasing Clipper Wilkinson. The boy gave a small gasp of relief and air, but did not dare move from his spot. Connor realized he was no threat. Simply a young frontiersman struggling to get by, given the wrong information to the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe the Great Mother sent him.

"This meeting," Connor drawled. "Where precisely is it being held?"


	17. Part II: Trap

**Well, I am a big fat liar. Sorry guys, this was meant to come out waay sooner, but some things came up that prevented me from doing so. If it makes up for it, I'm posting a one-shot based on the Jack the Ripper DLC. If you like that game, I recommend checking it out. If not, enjoy this chapter!**

Jack Weeks never had the fondest memories of the frontier. He had one too many incidents with packs of brigands or squadrons of French soldiers. He even once stumbled in a bear's den (that was a story he never wanted to recall). Gist had always made fun of him and his lack of adventure. But his vow of service to the Templar Order took him to wherever the Inner Sanctum needed him, and if it happened to be the outside the cities, so be it. And if Charles Lee ordered him to investigate the settlements of Pennsylvania, then he would do just that.

Still, the Templar wished Lee would have sent him in the early spring, instead during the heat of summer. Jack's black trousers and thick brown coat were suffocating in the humidity of the swamps. His dark skin under the bright sun certainly did not help him. At least he had his broad hat and tinted glasses to shield his eyes. Same couldn't be said for his men. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the rest of his company wasn't much better.

The group of mercenaries looked miserable—their shoulders were slumped with exhaustion and sweat shined their brows. They trudged across the ground, their legs no doubt sore from trekking across the colony for days. Even though, Jack could see they tried to hide it. They clutched their muskets tightly with a solemn countenance. Now was not a time for personal discomfort.

Jack narrowed his eyes and peered across the field. After a moment, he noticed a few floating specks poking up from the sea of wheat. The rest of their party. Some were slowly moving across the horizon, to the other side of the field. Good, everyone was in attendance. They would have this place surrounded in moments.

The Templar could see why he chose to hide here. Plantations like these were a dime a dozen. No one would give a second glance, a second thought. Jack was sure that Lee or even the Grandmaster would never figure that this would be the headquarters for a traitor.

A large farmhouse with faded painting towered over the band of mercenaries, with a whitewashed mansion resting on the overlooking hill. The farmhouse was surrounded by fields of wheat, taller than even the burly men. No doubt the occupants were hoping the large expanse would give them a view of any intruders. But their cockiness allowed mistakes that gave their perfect hideout away.

The farmhouse was in disrepair—the paint was faded and stripped off. Jack even noticed patches of rotting wood in the structure. The building wouldn't last much longer. The surrounding fields of wheat had been given no maintenance in months, either. No farmer would allow his plantation to fall in such a state. But the fields allowed the perfect camouflage for Jack and his men.

The deserter would not discover them until was too late.

Even though, Jack was careful to stay out of sight of the manor and use the fields as cover. The wheat ended several yards from the farmhouse, so the group of Templars crouched low as they stalked across the open ground. Jack quickly slipped under the shadow of the building, pressing his back to the wood.

The man quickly went over his arsenal. A sharpened cutlass sword, a flintlock pistol, and a handful of bombs, given to him by Shay. Then there was a miniature army behind him. Jack Weeks waited patiently for several moments. Then suddenly there was a flash of light from the sea of wheat, followed by another. Each lasted an instant—if he had blinked, he would have missed it, and if anyone else seen it, they would have excused as part of their imagination. But Jack saw it, and knew what it meant. It was time.

Slowly, the Templar unsheathed his sword, the metal making a grating sound as it was pulled out of its sheath. The men pressed themselves to the farmhouse wall, out of sight, as Jack neared the single door. He pulled the handle until the lock was dislodged and pushed it open, stepping back. He winced when the hinges let out a long squeak of protest and bright light poured into the shadowed building. Well, no turning back now.

Jack led the way, the lesser Templars following him one by one. One step inside confirmed he was in the right place. The man was not greeted with a scent of hay, manure, or animals. He was greeted with a musky, stale scent. Along with the distinct smell of gunpowder. Instead of cattle cramming the farmhouse, piles and piles of crates filled the expansive building. Looked like they stumbled into the traitor's cache.

Good, it meant he had nowhere to run to when they caught him.

"Spread out," he whispered to the men. "Secure the building. Then we burn the whole place down."

His second-in-command gave a wicked grin and nodded. The order went through the line and then the column broke apart, the men disappearing into the shadows. Jack stood tall and strutted to the center of the farmhouse.

He wasn't afraid—he had no reason to. He had hunted men before. Haytham had entrusted him to hunt down any remaining Assassins after the Purge. This would be no different. If anything, _he_ should be afraid.

"Where are you, Wolcott?!" Jack bellowed. "You're not getting out of here alive!"

For a few moments, nothing. Then…

"Did that pompous idiot send you?" a harsh voice replied.

Jack whipped around. The voice seemed to echo across the farmhouse—making it hard to pinpoint the source. The Templar thought quickly. He would be hiding where he would see Jack, not the other way around—the most advantageous spot in the building. The man glanced up, to see the edges of the loft above him.

 _Keep him talking,_ he schemed. _Find him. He never knew how to shut his mouth._

"If you mean the Grandmaster, then yes!" Jack answered.

"Ha! That old fool is drunk with power and stupidity! He should go back to London to grovel to his master… Or should I say marionette?"

Apparently the traitor saw his own joke hilarious, because he let out a maniacal cackle. Jack wanted to roll his eyes. Wolcott was brilliant at his work, no doubt, but when it came to anything else, he seriously lacked any creativity.

 _It's time to shut that blubbering mouth once and for all,_ Jack thought bitterly.

Suddenly a sound interrupted his advance. Jack glanced over his shoulder. It sounded like a dull thud of impact, but there was nothing behind him. Just more crates. The Templar narrowed his eyes and continued, this time with heightened senses.

"I shouldn't be surprised that Kenway sent his lapdogs after me," Wolcott sneered. Yes, the traitor was definitely in the loft; Jack was sure of that now. He just needed to get up there without the brigand noticing. "I wouldn't expect him to get off his arse and come for me himself."

"That's because you give him no reason to!" Jack retorted with venom. Wolcott was nothing more than nuisance. A man with a bigger ego than he was worth. The traitor's arrogant tone came from right above Jack.

"Hmm, let's remedy that then, shall we?"

A moment later he heard the sound again—this time with a pained gasp. His skin crawled. He scanned the farmhouse again, but instead of searching for Wolcott, he searched the shadows. His stomach knotted when he found them empty. Now the farmhouse was eerily silent. Jack only heard his own breath, nothing else. Where were his men?

He was so focused on the shadows, he wasn't paying attention his steps. The Templar's blood went cold when his foot hit a solid, but soft object. He glanced down, only for his muscles to freeze. He was greeted by the lifeless eyes of his second-in-command. Jack saw no wounds—only the trails of blood that came from the man's nose and ears.

There was a long moment where nothing moved. Then fury filled Jack. He did not come all this way to be a part of Wolcott's game. He would not become the hunted.

"Show yourself, you fucking coward!" the Templar roared.

Another sound. Different than the others. Jack stopped and his hair stood on end. Another thud, but softer than the others. But it was just as distinct. It was the sound of the floorboard protesting from heavy weight.

A footstep. _Behind him_.

Jack Weeks whirled around, sword fully extended. A dull object filled his vision, and that was the last thing he ever saw.

* * *

Selah hurried up the stairs to the deck of the _Morrigan_ , escaping the confines of the small ship. She was greeted with warm sunlight washing over her face and the shade of lush green surrounding her. The wind rustled her long hair and she immediately let in a deep breath of fresh, pure air. The scents of the forest sent new energy coursing through her veins. Yes, the frontier at last. It was a refreshing change from the stress of Boston.

The winter had been far too cold and long, forcing her to be confined indoors for intolerable amounts of time. While she was all too aware that the Sons of Liberty were out there, free. Haytham had promised to help her search, but every lead vanished into thin air. For drunks and fiends, the Sons knew how to cover their tracks. Selah began to understand why the Order did not detect them sooner. Their disappearance reminded her of the Assassins, how the Brotherhood seemed to vanish in thin air, like phantoms. Considering that and the Assassin's involvement… Selah wondered if the Sons of Liberty and the Assassin Brotherhood were one and the same.

If that was true, then it even further her resolve that the Assassins' ideals had become flawed. Especially considering they no longer followed their own Creed…

The night she encountered the violent rebels was still vivid in her mind, and it even awakened older, darker memories she had hidden away. Shay and Haytham were the only ones that knew of the incident, not even the other members of the Inner Sanctum. Although the pair of men had assured her what had happened was not her fault, but didn't make the misgivings she felt go away. The Templar didn't fail to notice her seniors staying closer than usual.

The Sons of Liberty had to be found, and they had to pay for their crimes they committed. And if they were really a shadow of what remained of the Brotherhood, then they had to be exterminated. Their fight for freedom was only chaos, not peace. She would not let the Colonies be their victim. But until that day came, Selah had to wait, and the was the most unbearable thing of all.

 _Finally_ spring came, when Shay informed he would begin preparing for the trip to John's Town. He meant to go earlier that spring, but… well, for obvious reasons. Because of the incident at Griffin's Wharf, Johnson had his hands full with his business (including increasing security around Boston), so he delayed the journey for several more weeks. It wasn't until Johnson was satisfied that his investments were safe that he approved of the journey.

The extra time allowed Selah to consider Johnson's offer, and when he announced he was leaving, she accepted his invitation.

With that, they began the two-week journey into the frontier. Their late start would mean they would not arrive until mid-summer, and the trip would be shorter than most. But considering Haytham and William stressed this would be strictly business, Selah supposed it would not matter.

Her thoughts were broken when suddenly a strong hand clasped on her shoulder. Reflex kicked in. The Templar snatched the hand of the assaulter and twisted around, only for another hand to snatch her wrist and pry her off.

"Easy now," Shay's voice sounded. Immediately Selah's cheeks burned with embarrassment as she was met with Shay's amused gaze.

"My God, I'm so—" she tried to apologize, but was cut off.

"It's alright," the Irishman assured. "That was good. Those wits will save your life one day."

Selah gave a quivering sigh. Only Shay would laugh at the fact that she almost broke his fingers. Or maybe she was wrong, as she heard the bellowing laugh of Gist coming from the wheel. Ugh, of course Shay would invite him on this trip.

"I was just going to tell you that we'll be making port soon," Shay reported. "Make sure everything is ready."

"Of course, captain."

The Master Templar nodded in approval. "Good. Check on Johnson, why don't ya?"

Selah nodded, not expressing her reluctance to go below deck when she just escaped. But she obediently ducked under the manhole and into the belly of the ship Selah usually loved sailing, but there was a reason she disliked being stuck within the _Morrigan_. Barely larger than a schooner, the interior of the sloop-of-war was cramped and stuffy, and the air filled with dust and the sweat of sailors. As Selah traveled down the narrow corridor, she could feel the hungry stares of Shay's men. They knew better than to dare touch her, but that did not stop their yearning. The woman glared back in challenge, provoking the men to look away and continue their work.

She made it to William's quarters, knocking on the frame of the door to announce her presence. She honestly pitied the businessman, who was used to large studies. His room was no bigger than a closet, filled with a cot smaller than him and a desk directly pressed against it. The back of the chair he sat in was pressed against the wall, offering no room. The man was writing letters, in missive as neat and perfect as Haytham's. He turned at her appearance.

"Ah, Selah, how can I help you, my dear?" William asked.

"Just letting you know we'll be arriving soon," Selah reported. The Master Templar nodded at the news.

"Good. I'll just finish these letters to Pitcairn and I'll get ready."

Selah took advantage of the man mentioning the soldier to speak her concern.

"Should he be here?" she inquired. "His expertise may be useful."

"No, it is not necessary. I already have men that will act as guard over the meeting."

Selah immediately understood. "The conference with the Iroquois?"

"Yes. I hope a treaty will end tensions for a while, and allow the colonists to focus more on private matters, while the natives may live in peace. Furthermore, the possession of land will allow our Order to oversee the local tribes and ensure their protection. It may even make the site more accessible."

The woman cocked an eyebrow. "What site?"

Immediately William's eyes widen and his skin paled, as if he realized he made a horrid mistake. "Oh, erm, I meant the native village, Kanatahséton."

Automatically Selah darkened at the name. "The village Washington burned."

"Yes. We won't allow such tragedy to happen again. You have my word."

"Which is why this conference is so important."

"Indeed," William agreed, nodding. "Nothing must go wrong."

Selah nodded solemnly, swallowing. She could have stopped that day, just like she could have stopped the Sons of Liberty from killing that poor little girl. But she came to accept it was _her_ fault. She didn't lead the raid, or wielded the sword that slayed innocent children. It was _him_.

Selah wasn't going to let that happen again.

* * *

"Selah! It has been far too long."

"Molly, it's good to see you again," Selah greeted, embracing the woman.

The older woman wore a plain yellow dress made of silk, giving it a unique shine. Like most colonists, it completely covered her skin. What gave away her true identity was her bronze skin, which was a darker tone than her light dress. Her dull, black hair was separated in twin braids intertwined with beads. Her dark, smoky eyes were piercing, even though she was smiling widely.

The moment she broke apart with Selah, she gave a more meaningful hug to Johnson, who returned likewise. The young Templar looked away to allow privacy when the couple kissed.

"All is well, _ori:te'_?" he asked.

"Yes," Molly assured. "I kept the house in order for you. Also you would like to know I have spoken with Joseph. He plans to attend conference."

"Excellent."

The couple moved further into the great mansion while the servants collected their luggage. Selah trailed behind them, even though she was tempted to go back to the docks with Shay. He had to stay behind to sort through the cargo and his men, but promised he would join them for dinner. So she was left with escorting Johnson, listening to his conversation with his consort about the conference.

Several Iroquois leaders were attending, including Molly's younger brother, Joseph Brant. Not only a war chief, he represented all the Mohawk tribes in the Colonies. He had been personally selected by William, after years of being under the businessman's wing. Whether the native knew of William's true allegiance and true purpose, Selah wasn't sure, she was relieved that the powerful figure would be present. There was no one better than Joseph, as he too strived for peace between races.

" _Raké:ni_!"

Selah perked her head up at a small voice to see a young boy running towards William as fast as his little legs would allow. Immediately the Master Templar gave a wide grin, bending down to scoop up the boy, putting the little one on his hip. William gave a loud hum as he planted a strong kiss on his son's cheek.

"Look how big you've grown!" the father cheered. Selah agreed, the child was easily several inches taller than last summer.

" _Raké:ni_ , come see my new toys," the son giggled. "Uncle Joseph brought me some. And he's going to be here soon!"

"Is he now?" William replied dramatically, humoring his son. "How about you show me your toys?"

The son squealed in delight and all but jumped out of the man's arms as he placed him on the ground. Molly laughed as the boy ran away. William followed him, but looked over his shoulder at Selah.

"Go get your things settled," he ordered. "Supper should be soon."

"Yes, sir," Selah hummed obediently. She meant to walk away, but the Master Templar's voice stopped her.

"And Selah—" The woman turned. She locked eyes with William's dark, serious ones. A sharp contrast to the shining gaze of pride they were a moment ago. "I wish to speak to you in the morning about our… Business. I want everything in the conference to go smoothly. I'll not have anything go awry."

The younger Templar immediately understood. Security that would be guarding the conference. William understood there was an Assassin about, and that he was very much a target. But what had taken Selah all of winter to realize, that was what the Templar was counting on. To make peace was not the only purpose of the meeting.

It was was a trap to kill the Templars' enemy.


	18. Part II: Hostile Negotiations

**A quick note, Joseph Brant's real name is Thayendanegea, so he will be referred as that from Mohawk point-of-view.**

* * *

"Johnson's Hall is up on that hill, across the harbor," Clipper explained, pointing towards the building's general location. "But it looks like the dock's heavily guarded. I suggest we go another way."

"We do not have time," Connor insisted.

The Assassin analyzed the landscape, trying to think of a plan. Armed guards patrolled the docks at the harbor below and even the surrounding waters. Through the trees lining the cliff on the far side of the water, the native spotted even more men making rounds. He didn't expect this type of security. It would be difficult to bypass them all, and if he alerted even one, it would certainly attract others. He had to make his way to John's Town without being seen.

But that was easier said than done. The Assassin turned to his guide.

"How good is your aim?" he asked.

"Can pop a muskrat's head from a quarter mile nine times outta ten–and the ten's a misfire," Clipper explained proudly.

Connor nodded. Good, that will help. But he still had a problem of getting over there. If they traveled together, they were more likely to be seen. They had to split up.

"See if you can find another way around," the native ordered. "Meet me by Johnson's Hall and find a high vantage point you can use."

The Assassin meant to move, but Clipper stopped him by gripping his arm. Connor stiffened at the touch, disliking contact with someone he barely knew. But he restrained himself from glaring or even attacking the fellow teenager.

"I can't let you do that," Clipper insisted as he kept the larger boy at bay. "No way you can get past all those men."

Connor opened his mouth to argue, but suddenly the sound of a snapping twig cut him off. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and his muscles went rigid. Beside him, he felt Clipper was doing likewise.

"You heard that, right?" the frontiersman questioned.

Instead of replying, the young Assassin whirled around, pulling out his flintlock. Clipper followed his example, placing his rifle on his shoulder. But instead of a redcoat or Templar, Connor's eyes widened at the figure greeting them.

" _Peace, brother!"_ Kanen'tó:kon exclaimed, flinching back.

"Wait," Connor ordered Clipper, grabbing his weapon and pushing it down while he holstered his own. Ignoring the teenager's confused glance, the native questioned his friend in his mother tongue. " _Kanen'tó:kon, what are you doing here?"_

" _Thayendanegea invited Oiá:ner to attend a meeting with William Johnson,"_ the fellow native explained. " _She chose several of the village's warriors to accompany her."_

Connor squinted in his eyes in confusion. " _Why would Oiá:ner plan to speak with him? After he threatened to steal our land?"_

" _She along with the other Council members wish to negotiate another treaty to keep the tribes safe. Johnson has promised to assist them in their goals."_

"That's not what I heard," Clipper spoke up.

Both natives glanced at the boy with equal perplexed gazes. Clipper knew their language? When the boy noticed Connor staring at him, he only shrugged. It made the Assassin shake his head and turn to Kanen'tó:kon, now speaking in English.

"Johnson is lying to you," the Assassin informed. "He plans to convince the Council to allow him more land."

Kanen'tó:kon did not seem surprised, instead wearing a solemn and defeated expression.

"I feared as much," he confessed. "But Oiá:ner insisted to allow the Iroquois to defend themselves."

"They are falling for a trap!" Connor snapped.

"I say we just go kill the son of a bitch," Clipper decided.

Connor nodded in agreement and turned to Kanen'tó:kon. "Can you help us?"

The fellow Mohawk warrior nodded. "Of course. What do you plan?"

"Listen closely."

* * *

Connor stalked through the reeds, nearly on all fours. The water sloshed around his legs, but he kept his movements slow, only creating gentle waves. His off-white cloak blended into the pale foliage. The sentries posted on the harbor's banks would not notice him as they were more concerned watching the waters than the shadows of the cliffs.

The warrior paused as his camouflage came to end, but it was exactly where he needed to be. An outcrop loomed over him, its shadow casting over him. Connor tensed his muscles as he heard a scuffle of footsteps. He glanced up to see an armed mercenary standing on the edge of the rock, scanning eyes narrowed at the distant water. At the same time, the Assassin pressed his back against the cool rock, giving him a view of the man, but the Templar could not see him. The warrior slowly pulled out his tomahawk and prepared to pounce, but a voice stopped him.

"Caleb, see anythin'?" a gruff voice called out. Connor's prey turned around as a second figure joined him.

"Nah, nothing," the man answered as he greeted his friend. "Why are we out here anyway? Who's going to bother with a bunch of Indians?"

"You forget there's a whole town up there, too," the second mercenary snapped. "Women and children. And besides, we get payed so why does it matter?"

The first one snickered. "With the amount they're paying me, I can bed a fine girl for quite some time."

"Now yer talkin'."

Connor rolled his eyes at their vulgar conversation. However, he ducked as both men turned, heading back the way they came. Perfect. In a blink of an eye, the Assassin leaped from his hiding spot, sprinting towards his targets. Hearing his approach, both men whirled around, but it was too late.

Connor leaped into the air, avoiding their bayonets and buried his hidden blades into their throats. Their baffled looks turned into expressions of shock and pain before their eyes glazed. One man let out a dying scream and the other made a choking sound, but both fell silent as the back of their heads slammed onto the rock. The warrior immediately stilled after his kill—blades still lodged—as he braced for another attack or a fellow sentry to raise the alarm. He heard none.

Assured, Connor straightened. Now all he had to do was wait for—

His thought was interrupted as a clap of thunder filled the air, accompanied by high-pitched screams. The teenager glanced further down the bank to see a column of smoke coming from the docks. Several yells from the woods were quickly to follow, muffled by distance and the trees.

"Bloody 'ell was that?"

"Sounded like it came from the docks!"

"Hurry up!"

Connor smiled. Kanen'tó:kon had done it. That should occupy the guards for a while. With the coast clear, the Assassin scaled up the cliff towards Johnson's Hall.

* * *

Selah stood next to several armed men—belonging to both William and Shay. Before her was a circle of men, all almost twice as large as her. Instead of cotton coats, they wore leather clothing and decorated shrouds over their shoulders. Each one sat on the ground with their legs crossed, but they held their heads high with solemn gazes. An aura of authority surrounded each one. It was to be expected, as these were the chiefs that represented the Iroquois. In the mix, Selah also spied elder women sitting beside the much younger men. Clan Mothers, William explained. They were here to see if the chiefs they had chosen were properly representing their tribe.

Behind each pair, was a native warrior, each armed with their own weapons. A dagger, a bow and arrow, a club, and Selah even saw one wielding a musket. Each one stood behind their chief, standing as still as a statue, scanning the area with glaring eyes for anything that could threaten their leader. That even included fellow Indians, as Selah spotted more than one glaring at their fellow representatives.

The woman looked away to lay her gaze on a figure sitting closest to the house. He was tall and lean and carried himself the same as his fellow delegates, if not more. A red shroud covered his shoulders and he wore black trousers, made of cotton instead of leather. However, the large moccasins and his belt made up for the lack of the material. Instead of wearing a ceremonial headdress, the man wore his long, black hair in a queue, intertwined with eagle feathers. Even from this distance, Selah could see more than one similarity with William's consort.

Joseph Brant, William's brother-in-law and chief of the Kanien'kehá:ka.

Beside him, an old woman sat, clutching a staff and overlooking the conference with observing eyes. Without warning, the old woman snapped her gaze to Selah. Her coal-black eyes stared at the Templar with such intensity that the warrior's skin crawled. To save herself, Selah looked away, just in time to see William and his consort, Molly, step out of the hall into the circle of chiefs.

Despite he was surrounded by men that looked nothing like him, many of which were armed with deadly weapons and larger than him, William looked comfortable and confident. He was among friends, a people that welcomed him as their own. Even though he was their supervisor for the British more than anything else, appointed to make sure the native peoples did not conflict with colonialist ambitions. It was his duty, as British Superintendent of Indian Affairs.

" _Welcome, my brothers,"_ William began, speaking in Mohawk. Selah narrowed her eyes in concentration, trying to translate from her brief lessons she received over the summers. She wished this meeting could be done in English. " _I am glad all of you have come, so we may speak of peace between our worlds."_

Instead of sitting among the natives, William remained standing, opening his arms as if he wanted to embrace the entire group at once. Molly obediently stayed behind him, hands clasped in front of her. Selah looked around the group to see instead of appearing assured, the chiefs appeared even more solemn than they already were.

" _If you wish for peace, then why do your people trespass on our lands?"_ one spoke up. Selah recognized him as the leader of the Onondaga, the central tribe of the Iroquois Confederation. " _Murder our hunt, our land, our children. That does not sound like peace at all."_

There were mutters and nods of agreement, a couple even glaring at William. While Selah took a sharp breath and her heart sped up, the Superintendent did not seem fazed.

" _I know my fellow colonists do not share the same sympathy as I,"_ he said, almost sounding remorseful. " _But understand we are new to this land. We are still learning what the Great Mother has intended for us. There will be a day when we will stand side-by-side, but today is not that day."_

" _Then what do you suggest?"_ the chief of the Oneida demanded.

Instead of answering, Johnson turned to Molly and nodded. She nodded back and stepped forward. She raised her voice so it could be heard across the broad circle.

" _In the interests of our people, the Kanien'kehá:ka shall allow the citizens of His Majesty's Kingdom to enter the Eastern Valleys,"_ she announced.

Immediately there were several gasps and loud murmurs, as well as glares at Joseph, who was as still as stone. As leader of the Mohawk, they all knew he had to approve of this in order for his sister to reveal it before all. This meant Johnson already had his meeting behind closed doors, before this conference was even planned. The chiefs had not gathered to negotiate. They had gathered to approve to the Superintendent's decision.

Before the quiet uproar could continue, Molly spoke up again.

" _The Kanien'kehá:ka would also request that the other members of the Iroquois surrender a portion of their land as well,"_ the woman continued.

The uproar grew louder, making Selah wince. One chief jumped to his feet. The Templar recognized him as one of the representative from the Cayuga.

" _Surrender sacred land when it not yours to begin with?!"_ he roared. " _For generations we have resided here. And you white men come from a foreign land, establishing yourself here with no respect of the traditions we have worked so hard to create."_

There was collective murmur and Selah saw several heads nodding in agreement. She could only translate half of what the representative said, but she was able to interpret his meaning. He was not the first to say such. And he was certainly not alone, considering the increasing flustered expressions of the chiefs. Even the bodyguards seemed stressed.

" _Brothers, please! I am confident we will find a solution,"_ William said, silencing them. He strode into the center of the circle, keeping his mediating composure. Then—

"We are not your brothers."

Everyone turned to the voice. It was sparse English with a thick tone, but clearer than many of them. Eyes widened at the speaker.

Joseph Brant.

The man's was as stone-like as ever, his dark gaze not wavering from William. He did not even notice his sister sent him an appalled look. Suddenly the native chief stood up and addressed the entire group.

"I hereby declare that the Kanien'kehá:ka will refuse the treaty brought to us," he said. "We will submit not any land."

For a long time there was stunned silence. Selah felt her blood turn cold as her skin turned pale. Around her, natives stared with wide eyes and gaped mouths, as if the man stated he was white.

The young Templar glanced at William, to see he was not expecting this. William stared at him with a look of true betrayal, his brown eyes filled with hurt and confusion. A single bead of sweat rolled down his brow. Selah swallowed. She had never seen William sweat, even during the hottest of summers. The man looked back and forth, like he was trying to see all his surroundings at once. It was futile, as his surroundings were all the same.

As the council digested the Mohawk leader's words, their expressions hardened. They stared at William with looks of resentment—like an outcast. Like an enemy. Selah saw a single tremor in the Master Templar's hands.

Instinctively, her hand slowly wrapped around the hilt of her sword. Around her, she sensed the soldiers stiffening their muscles, also securing their weapons. The woman honestly did want to hurt the people she had come to love and admire—or resort to any bloodshed. But as a lower Templar, it was her duty to protect a member of the Inner Sanctum. Even disregarding that fact, Selah would still give her life for William.

He was the first one in Haytham's Inner Sanctum to not only accept her into the Order, but treat her as a fellow Templar. He looked after her, provided for her. He was like an uncle to Selah—in more ways than one.

Why didn't they understand?! William didn't want to steal from the tribes—he wanted to protect them! The man was humbled that they had accepted him as one of his own, and he returned their graciousness by treating them as his own people. And now they were turning their backs on him, when they were in the need of his protection. Selah wanted to speak out in his defense, but reluctantly held her tongue, knowing it was not her business to interfere.

"I only wish to keep you safe!" William insisted, even though his words fell on deaf ears. "There are those who wish to betray and manipulate you. Or worse yet—take your land by force. You will be removed from your land, and those who stay will be killed. Is that truly what you want?"

"We rather be killed within our home," a Seneca native retorted, "rather than sign our lands over to you. To be in your people's mercy—forever."

" _The spirits have guided us for as long as we can remember,"_ a croaking voice spoke up, once again speaking native. Selah glanced over to see it was the Clan Mother of the Mohawk. " _And they will continue to do so."_

"But have they not guided you here?" William pointed out. "So we may find peace among us?"

"Or to unmask the great betrayer," Joseph snarled with venom. The Superintendent flinched as if he had been stabbed, but did not move as the native stormed towards him like a bull. "You promised you would protect us, but here you are, trying to sell us as part of your 'property.' I did not to agree to this—I never did. You _forced_ it upon me. You promised to keep us safe, but the flames of war have never been closer. I trusted you, believed you. I gave you my sister, gave you my land… If you wish to protect us, then give us arms so we may defend ourselves!"

"War is not the answer!"

"We remember Stanwix! We remember you moved the borders! Even today your men live upon it—showing no regard for those who live upon it."

"And what will you think the army will do, when they not take a portion of your land, but _all_ of it?" William countered. He stepped away from a towering Joseph and began to pace before the council, his voice solemn. "Men fear what they do not understand. And if a man does not understand another man, they become more vicious than a wolf to another wolf. Because if they do not understand one another, how can they be the same? Instead the man tries to change it into _his_ view, and if he can't, then he exterminates it." The man looked down and shook his head, almost in sadness. "If we do not understand each other now, then we never understand each other. Centuries will be spent on demonizing each other, thieving each other… destroying each other. An endless cycle of death. One man strikes another, and that man desires revenge, and that in turn breeds hatred and mistrust. Flames will burn across the country, and not even tears will put them out."

He looked back up back, and Selah's heart wrenched as she saw tears in the man's eyes. William really cared for these people, and he could not bear the thought to make them suffer. Even though, the woman looked back to Joseph, trying to look into his cold eyes.

The chief stared at his mentor with… regret? Sorrow? Shame? Selah stared, confused and almost convinced herself it was her imagination. And then the realization hit her like a bullet to the heart.

She still remembered her hatred for the Templars when they stole her home. When they stole from the Brotherhood, and merely laughed. It was no different than with the Indians. Everything they loved was being taken away from them—not only their land, but their loved ones, their homes, and even their way of life. Selah felt her heart swell with pity.

The Templar swallowed. But it was a better life than the one of suffering the British will deliver them.

The woman was so busy staring at the standoff between William and Joseph, she did not notice a soldier next to shifting, followed by a gasp.

"Sir Johnson! Watch out!" the man cried.

Selah snapped her neck towards the shout, quickly following the pointed finger towards the woods. She only saw a glimpse of a figure, but it was all she needed. A white cloak stood, one arm cocked back with the other held out. Pointing an arrow right at William.

The warrior moved without thinking. Selah leaped forward, crashing into the Master Templar's back. Just as the man fell with the woman on top of him, she heard a deafening _crack_ , followed by William's scream.

All Hell broke loose.

With a roar, several enraged mercenaries charged towards the natives. In response, the warriors met them to defend their chiefs. Selah heard several more _cracks_ over the yells and clashes of metal. She glanced up, in fear the soldiers were killing innocents, only to realize it was the hired guns that were falling. Before she could observe any further, she glanced down, hearing William's grunt. Selah quickly got off of him and gently rolled the man over.

"William!" a voice screamed, interrupting her from inspecting the man. Suddenly a figure was next to her, leaning over the fallen Templar. Selah glanced to see Molly, cupping her husband's face in her hands.

Before she could say anything, William hissed through gritted teeth, "It's fine."

Selah glanced down to see what was causing him pain. It was a nasty gash on his leg, blood seeping from the wound and staining the ground. The woman swallowed.

"We need to get him out of here," the Templar decided. She looked at Molly. "Help me."

The woman nodded and took her husband's arm, while Selah took the other. Together, the pair of women lifted a wounded William to his feet, the Templar letting out a groan of pain. He was able to stand, but had to lean on the women for support, an arm wrapped around each neck. However, they only made it three feet before an Indian noticed them.

With a war, the large man charged them, holding a war club over his head. Selah slipped away from William and intercepted the strike aimed for him with her sword. She then twisted to land a kick to the assaulter's groin. He yelled in pain before Selah spun again to send another heel to his chest, sending him staggering backwards.

As quickly as she could, the young girl ripped out her flintlock, aiming at the native's chest. However, the Templar paused before she could pull the trigger. She could not bring herself to kill someone who only desired to protect their homeland. Selah gritted her teeth in frustration, only to hear a groan behind her. She dared to look back to see Molly collapsing under William's heavy weight, his skin was already pale.

Selah looked back to her opponent, who had recovered and was sending her a dark glare, as if to pounce. The warrior swallowed and braced. She had things to protect, too.

However, before she could make any movement, a solid wall materialized in front of her. The arm holding out the flintlock was forced downward, and before she could react, Selah hissed as something hard struck her chin. Her head was snapped back and she lost her balance, only feel pain explode from her side.

The air was ripped from her lungs as the world spun. Selah cried as she slammed onto the ground, disoriented. She faintly heard a muted noise, but couldn't tell what it was. The Templar rolled over and craned her neck up, squinting her eyes against the harsh sun. At first all she saw was a dark silhouette, and then a flash of white flickered across her vision. Her heart stopped.

The _Assassin_.

From the shadow of his hood, the young woman saw dark, brown eyes staring down as her, his lips tugged in a frown. His face looked like it was made of stone—cold and unmoving. Selah desperately tried to climb to her feet, making it to all fours when her side pulsed with pain. She hissed and gripped it, glancing up to see the Assassin was gone. What? How—?

The Templar reclaimed her hold on her sword and jumped to her feet, looking around the battlefield. The assailant was long gone. How could he be so _fast_? The warrior's first instinct was to chase after him—no matter where he had gone—but then she realization dawned on her. _William_.

Selah spun around to where the man was, only for bile to rise to her throat. A deep, black hole was in his shoulder. A river of crimson blood poured from the gruesome wound, turning his scarlet coat even darker. Molly was over him, cradling the back of her head in her lap, eyes wide and filled with fear and shock. The world froze as Selah stared at the scene.

"No…"

No. Not again. _No_.

"William!" Selah cried, dropping her knees beside the man. Reacting quickly, she ripped off her own jacket, wadding it into a ball and pressing it against the hole. William wheezed in pain, but did not resist. Selah gritted her teeth. No, she would not allow him to die. She turned to Molly, who was beside herself.

"Help me get him up," the Templar ordered. "Get him inside the house."

"No," William coughed. Both women snapped their gazes at him. Selah stared at the Master Templar, even as the man gave a crooked smile.

"I know when my time has come, Selah," the man breathed. The woman shook her head.

"No, we still need you," she insisted, her voice cracking. "You're a Master of the Knights Templar. The colonies depend on you. We need someone to protect the natives!"

"And I'm sure you'll find a way to do that, my dear." Suddenly his eyes grew dark and he stared at Selah with an intense glare. "Listen to me, Selah. King George doesn't care about the tribes. Do you really think he stays up at night, hoping that no harm comes to his native subjects? Or the people of the city will give them a second thought? The colonists may be happy to trade when they need food or knowledge of the land or a bit of extra padding for their armies. But when the walls of the city constrict—when there's crops that need soil—when there's… when there's so no more enemy left to fight, do you know what will happen then?"

Molly merely looked horrified, but her dark eyes showed she understood her husband's words. She was well aware of this, and it was one of the main reasons why she agreed to stay with such a foreigner. That and true love, of course. Selah swallowed at his speech, unable to agree more. It was simply human nature. They lied, they cheated, they murdered... and never tired. Time again and again they started wars, solely for their own benefit. It was not a pessimistic view—it was the way of the world.

William let out a ragged sigh and closed his eyes, nestling the back of his head against his love's hands. Selah had been leaning on his wound the entire time, using all of her weight, but now her coat was completely soaked—and even more blood seeping through.

"I only wished… that I had more time," the Master Templar breathed, his voice softer than his hoarse croak. "I… I could have saved them all. If only… they would listen…"

"William, please…" Selah choked, trying to push harder, only for her limbs to shake and her shoulders to ache.

She shut her eyes tight and gritted her teeth, tempted to pray to a god she knew was not there. Suddenly a soft touch wrapped around her wrist. The Templar glanced up, startled, to see Molly staring at her. Tears were in the woman's eyes, but they shone with a light that Selah could not describe.

"Let him die not with pity, but with honor," the native consort whispered.

Selah choked a sob. She had already had enough of death—she couldn't stand to see another, especially William—but she could _see_ the life draining from him. His skin had gone deathly pale, and the once lush green ground was now a bloody red. Fighting back the tears welling in her eyes and forcing her constricted, sore throat to swallow, Selah leaned back onto her knees. She wrapped her hands around the Master Templar's, not letting go.

His shoulders suddenly heaved as he was panting, like he was suffocating. His grip around Selah's palm tightened to almost bone-crushing, but just as quickly loosened. William's head tilted as he let out a final sigh, his body moving no more. Selah couldn't stop the tears that fell.

William Johnson was dead.

* * *

 **Let me know what you guys think. Okay, guys, a** _ **ton**_ **history trivia on this one:**

 **William Johnson was appointed British Superintendent of Indian Affairs and acquired acquiring tens of thousands of acres of native land, thus becoming one of the richest men in the Colonies. However, he was known to have multiple relationships with women, even having numerous illegitimate children (which was not as frowned upon). His common-law marriage with the Molly Brant allowed him additional influence with the Mohawk, living with her and their eight children at Johnson's Hall. However, Johnson died during an Indian conference when he was "seized by suffocation," most likely being a stroke (Ubisoft was kinda close…). Instead I had him die bleeding to death from a severed artery, rather than monologuing with a hole in his chest. 2,000 people attended his funeral.**

 **Johnson also came to take Joseph Brant, also known as Thayendanegea, under his wing, introducing him to English-education and several prominent British leaders. With Johnson's guidance, Joseph became war chief of the Mohawk and their primary spokesman, working alongside his teacher to negotiate between colonists and Native Americans. After William's death, Joseph was chosen as the new Superintendent. In the interest of his people, he chose to side with the British, even participating in several battles in the American Revolution. He was invited to London, being received by King George himself. There, he petitioned the treatment of his people and for land grievances.**

 **The Iroquois Confederacy was made of the Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, Seneca and later Tuscarora. Credit for the formation of the alliance is when Hiawatha, a chief of the Onondaga, was persuaded to abandon cannibalism for the greater benefit of the tribes (yeah, I'd say). Its main purpose was to defend against invasion and was considered the most organized and effective Native American confederation in the northeast, led by a council made of chiefs.**


	19. Part II: Confronting the Problem

Connor flew across the ground. He did not feel the soil beneath his boots and the wind whistled loudly in his ears. The tail of his coat flapped behind him, beating like the wings of an eagle. He panted heavily and his heart pounded, but he still heard the furious shouts behind him. The Assassin was far faster than his pursuers, but they would not give up the chase so easily. After all, he had just murdered their master. Johnson's mercenaries charged after him, no longer interested in the natives. They only cared for him. Already they had fired at him several times, leaving a bloody gash on his arm.

He needed to escape. _Now_. The thought drove him even faster. He ignored the branches that slapped into his face, leaving bloody scrapes. _Finally_ the never-ending forest was replaced by open air. Instead of the green lush continuing on the other side, there was only endless sky. Soon enough the ground came to an abrupt end. Connor didn't care.

Adding one final kick, the native dashed to the edge. Without a moment's hesitation, he bounded off the side of the cliff, kicking free loose stone. Connor felt himself suspended in air. He expanded his arms to their full length, like an eagle riding across the currents. No ground lay beneath him and only the sky was his companion. But gravity was cruel. It had a different agenda.

Connor felt a force capture him and there was a horrid feeling of his organs being misplaced. But the Assassin only embraced it. He submitted to the strong pull like a swan, holding his arms before him to shield his face and make his body look like an arrow. He fell straight down, several hundred feet down the sheer cliff's side.

The wind roared painfully in his ears and he could not feel his body. It seemed to last for an eternity. Even then, the water came far too soon.

A thick, dark film covered Connor's vision and a powerful _slap_ pounded his hearing. His entire body racked with incredible pain from the force of impact. Even though his form was perfect, the native rolled into the water like a rag doll, twisting his limbs in the water. Instinct did not hesitate to kick in.

Every cell in the Assassin's body screamed for him to _move_. Suddenly a certain burning sensation came from his chest. Air! He needed air! Connor obeyed. The young man quickly untangled himself, only to see the water was so murky and filled with so many bubbles it was impossible to see which way was up. But he followed his internal compass, clawing desperately at the water and kicking his feet furiously.

There was nothing sweeter than the fresh air that waited him. Connor heaved a mighty gasp, trying to please his screaming lungs. His ears were ringing and his vision was blurry. But he could breathe. He did not stop taking in the delicious taste of oxygen, panting as he floated on the surface of the water. Far above him, he finally heard the confused and frustrated yells of his pursuers from the top of the cliff. They had lost their prey. Connor ignored them, knowing they were no longer a threat.

Instead, the Assassin dug a palm into the water's surface, driving himself forward. The action caused a wave of pain to ripple through his body, making him seethe. He ignored it, though, even as the firings came with each movement. When he looked up, the shoreline seemed like miles away. It made dread weigh him down like an anchor, but he forced himself onward.

It was far too long when he reached the shore. Each minute had seemed to stretch on for an hour, his body screaming in protest the entire time. Connor climbed pathetically onto the wet sand, coughing and gasping. His chest was heaving and his lungs ached. The native's too many muscles radiated with soreness, no longer obeying his commands to move. Blood was roaring in his ears. His vision was doubled and it still looked like water was covering it. With a groan, the Assassin tried to lift himself up, only to collapse onto the sand. He was so _tired_.

But he had done it. William Johnson was dead. His people were safe. The Templars could no longer steal their land and the colonists would not harm them. He had succeeded.

But instead of feeling a surge of victory, all he wanted was sleep. His body wanted to stop and his mind wanted to forget. He lay his head down on the sand, closing his eyes. Yes, _sleep_.

Connor was offered no such luxury.

Without warning, the sound of a firearm being loaded filled the air. A deep, dark voice came, full of controlled fury and hatred.

"Get up."

Connor looked up. A pit formed in his stomach.

It was the Assassin Hunter.

The same Shay that had been at the Boston Tea Party loomed over him, eyes dark and murderous. When mere seconds ago Connor's muscles were unmoving with exhaustion, were now powered by racing blood. He narrowed his eyes at the Master Templar in a glare, before slowly climbing to his feet—more for his defense than obeying the Hunter's order. Shay took a step back at Connor's action, his flintlock never wavering from the Assassin's head. Meanwhile, the warrior never broke eye contact, glaring at his captor from underneath his hood.

They weren't that much different in height—perhaps Shay a couple inches taller, but Connor believed that was only because of age. He noticed the Assassin Hunter carried an arsenal of weapons—more so than him. That included a gleaming, razor-sharp sword and dagger clipped to his side and that oddly-shaped rifle strapped to his back. Shay was observing him as well, his eyes narrowed in scrutiny. The two men stared at each other for several long moments, until Shay finally broke the tense silence.

"I thought I killed the lot of you," he hissed, narrowing his eyes. Connor huffed and raised his chin.

"You were wrong," the boy countered bravely. Shay only snorted, unfazed.

"I should have known, that Achilles had another apprentice. He was always a stubborn bastard. So did he make you slave on the Homestead?"

"Like you would know."

The Assassin Hunter slowly gave a maniacal smile. "Oh, I guess the old bastard never told ya, did he?"

Connor narrowed his eyes and took a step back, masking it as shifting his weight. Even that moment caused pain. The Assassin winced. He didn't have enough energy to defend himself. If it came to a fight, it would be ugly. He needed to wait for the exact opportunity for Shay to drop his guard, and strike. He braced, tensing the muscles underneath his hidden blades..

"Tell me what?" the teenager demanded, making his voice sound stronger than he felt.

"That Achilles had an apprentice, whom he brought in and trained solely to be his successor," the Master Templar explained. "It was his last apprentice, just before he wasted himself away."

"Only to be killed by _you_."

To Connor's surprise, the Irishman only shook his head at his accusation. "No, _I_ was his apprentice. I was an Assassin just like you, brat."

It felt like a stampeding elk slammed into the Assassin. No, impossible. Achilles would have _told_ him. He specifically said that Shay was a Templar—a monster. Personally killed hundreds of Assassins. No… a Brother wouldn't betray his own like that. Connor's blood boiled. Shay Cormac was lying to him.

"You truly expect me to believe in such?" the teenager demanded. "Achilles would never take in an apprentice like you! And an Assassin would never lead to the destruction of his Brothers!"

"Oh, but they have no regret throwing one of their own into the wind, _dying_ ," Shay spat back. "And seems Achilles lied to you, just like he lied to _me_. All to save his own skin." As the Templar spoke, Connor felt rage swelling his chest and his vision began to turn red. Meanwhile, he watched as Shay's dark eyes turned more and more murderous. "I have nothing to gain from killing a coward. Only _you_ will bleed, Assassin."

Instinct kicked in. All the pain and exhaustion instantly evaporated. Connor's will to survive realized the only way to escape was to kill the Assassin Hunter. In a blink of an eye, the warrior snatched his tomahawk, lunging at the Templar at the same time. But he never made it.

Without warning, a piercing battle cry filled the air. Connor saw Cormac's eyes widen a fraction before that horrid gaze disappeared. The Assassin only saw a flicker of something large slam into the Assassin Hunter, sending him onto the ground. Shay let out a loud grunt in protest as he fell face-first, his flintlock flying from his hand. Connor's eyes widened at Kanen'tó:kon, who sat on top of the assailant, teeth gritted in effort as he tried to keep the larger man down.

" _Run, brother!"_ the native yelled.

Connor only stood frozen, trying to process what just happened, and torn from leaving his best friend to the most dangerous man in the Colonies. Shay flailed underneath Kanen'tó:kon, letting out an inhuman growl. Without warning, the Assassin Hunter twisted and Connor saw a gleam of light.

" _Kanen'tó:kon!"_ he screamed.

It was too late, as Shay ripped out his dagger and twisted around to slice across Kanen'tó:kon's arm. The boy yelled in pain, flinching back. It was just enough to allow Cormac to muster the strength to throw his attacker off. He sent his elbow into the native's chin before rolling over and kicking Kanen'tó:kon away. Just as quickly, the Assassin Hunter was back on his feet.

Connor took his chance. He charged again, striking out with his tomahawk. However, Shay noticed, just as quickly whirling around to block it with his dagger. The Templar then kicked the boy's stomach, sending him stumbling back. Connor regained his balance just before he could topple into the water. And just in time to glance up to see the Assassin Hunter swinging his sword at his head. Instinctively, the Mohawk warrior dived towards the ground, rolling away. He felt the wind from the strike on the top of his head.

Connor skidded into a crouch, facing the Templar. Only when he did, he was greeted with the barrel of Shay's flintlock. The Assassin froze while the Irishman gave a sinister smile.

A clap of thunder filled the air.

Connor shut his eyes, but he felt no pain. Instead, he heard a roar of agony and anger. He looked up to see Shay holding his bleeding hand, his pistol on the ground. The boy's eyes widened and quickly realized what had happened. He glanced over his shoulder to see a familiar figure. Clipper.

The boy was leaning against a tree to stabilize his shot, his rifle aimed at the Assassin Hunter.

"Are you going to sit there all day?" the frontiersman snapped. "Get your arse over here!"

" _Kanen'tó:kon, come!"_ Connor ordered. The native nodded and followed the Assassin away from the raving Templar.

Shay hissed as he noticed his prey escaping, even taking a step towards them, but froze when he also saw Clipper. The boy had finished reloading and was placing the rifle on his shoulder, one eye tilted over the barrel. The Templar put two-and-two together and dived behind a boulder, just as a _crack_ filled the air. Clipper's curse said all. He had missed.

"How is that even fair?" the boy ranted.

Connor was also disappointed, but he was not foolish. Shay had not killed so many if he was not skilled. Even now, he held his own against two Mohawk warriors and avoided an expert marksman. And more men were on their way. They had to leave. _Now_.

The Assassin snatched Clipper's collar, hoisting him to his feet and ignoring his squeak of protest. The trio barged into the woods, Connor in the lead and Clipper trailing behind, vigilant of pursuers. There was none, save for the roar of rage and disappointment that followed them as the Assassins disappeared into the forest.

* * *

An inferno blazed across the sky. Fiery orange, burning scarlet, and smoky shades were painted on the clouds, shifting and stretching like a living fire. The glowing sphere of the sun was ducking behind the mountains in the distance, reflecting off the still and mirror-like waters of the lake. It was calm, bright, and beautiful. A sharp contrast to the darkness in Selah's heart.

Instead of seeing the serene scene before her, the Templar saw blood spattered across the sky, dripping down to stain the waters below. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the smiling face of William, even as the life drained from his eyes. Selah had held him in her arms, only for him to slip away from her grip. The woman gritted her teeth as the picture changed into a young, handsome man, with that same look of hope and faith. He had looked only to her, even as a war raged around him. They both had.

Selah had failed to save James Crawford. Now she had failed to save William Johnson.

Suddenly the young woman forced her eyes open, only to see the vibrant colors before her blurred. Her throat was painfully constricted. It took her several moments to realize she was crying. For a moment she was surprised, and then she felt the anger burn through her chest as she clenched her fists. She had no right to cry!

She was not Molly—who had surrendered her life for a man that was now dead, who now locked herself in her room. She was not a child—asking what had happened to their father, even as strange men slipped a covered object away behind him. She was not the natives—who had lost their brothers and their only hope for survival. She was a Templar—a protector of peace and order. She had a single duty and could not…. _would_ not let petty emotions control her judgment.

Even as Selah tried to make the solemn vow, a voice in her mind laughed at her. It was emotion that got James killed. Just like the bullet that took William de Saint-Prix. Or the dogs that feasted on Cacicaná. And now Johnson. All of them dead, because of _her_.

Selah could only whine pathetically, angry at herself more than anything. She had promised to no longer be the weak, scared little girl, but a Knight. But she was only a failure.

Suddenly the board behind her creaked as a heavy weight settled on it. It was enough for Selah to blink and take a sharp breath, just as quickly wiping the wetness from her face. She had just done so when Shay paused at the edge of the dock next to her. The woman dared to peer up to see the man had crossed his arms and was staring at the sunset, no different than she had been. They were silent for a long time. Then—

"There was nothing you could have done," Shay finally decided to say. Instead of acknowledging his words, Selah shook her head.

"I was right _next_ to him, Shay," she argued.

"And I let his killer get away."

That woke Selah up. The Templar snapped her eyes open and snapped her neck towards her superior. It was then she noticed his right hand was wrapped in bandages, stained with a crimson color. Her eyes widened.

Shay didn't even glance at her, instead muttering, "Damned fool slipped right through my fingers and dived into the forest—like some shark from the deep. We won't be seeing him for a while."

Selah gritted her teeth and gripped her knees. "I was supposed to protect him. William trusted me. You trusted me. Haytham. But everyone around me dies!"

"'Tis the way of the world. No matter how hard you may try, nothing can change that."

The younger Templar glanced at him again, looking into those black eyes. Her stomach knotted when she saw pain, and she understood where it came from. Shay never wanted to kill his former Brothers. But he did. He killed every single one and made them bleed out in his arms. Whatever pain Selah thought she suffered was nothing compared to Shay.

"How did you do it?" she asked softly. "How can you bear so much death?"

The Master Templar closed his eyes, sighing through his nose. After several long moments, he opened them again.

"You don't," he said slowly. "It's like a plague—it stalks you and drains life right out of you. What you do is find a way to move on. To save the lives that matter. Because if you don't, no one else will."

Selah looked down again, thinking. What he said was true. Shay would never forget the faces of the ones he loved. No doubt he thought of them every single day. But _only_ thinking of them solved nothing. Instead, focusing to solve those problems helped endure the pain. It gave a reason for shouldering it. As Shay killed the Assassins, he shouldered their deaths by knowing he was saving innocent lives from their foolishness.

Thinking of that made Selah's anger turn from herself to William's murderer. Shay thought he could finally be released of his sins, but now that Assassin was taunting not only him, but her as well. It was a ghost that had snuck from their past, and had killed William as some sort of game. It made her _hate_ him, whoever he was.

It was because of him that not only a Master Templar died, but several natives and soldiers as well. Good men gone with their families left in grieving. The Assassin had left a wake of destruction, solely for his own benefit. Just like the Sons of Liberty. Just like George Washington. Just like the British.

The world was cruel, indeed. And Selah would find a way to make things right, not in the name of revenge, but for the ones that failed to do so. She would shoulder their burden. She would find the Assassin. And she would kill him.

* * *

"Achilles!" Connor roared, bursting through the front door of the manor. Like a raging bull, he shifted on his heels while he turned his head back and forth, looking for a target.

"I'm right here, boy," the old man's voice croaked. The Assassin turned to see the former Mentor hobbling from the kitchen. "There's no need to shout."

Instead of listening to his teacher's instructions, Connor kept his voice near the same level.

"Since when do we withhold information from each other?" the Assassin demanded.

"I'm sorry?" Achilles replied as he settled a safe distance from the boy, leaning on his cane as his squinted eyes were tilted in confusion.

"Shay Cormac. He was your apprentice, he was not?"

Immediately a strange light appeared in Achilles's eyes. Before Connor could decipher what it was, Achilles sighed and lowered his head, shaking it.

"So he told you…" he muttered.

"Then it _is_ true…"

Connor had desperately hoped it was merely a lie—that Cormac had only said it to disillusion him. But he knew the only way to confirm it was by approaching the source of the accusation directly. And hearing the loathing in Achilles's voice told him more than enough. And that made the teenager angry more than anything.

"Why? Why did you not simply _tell_ me?" the apprentice demanded, following as his teacher turned around and limped away. "You'd rather have my enemy inform me of my own mentor?"

Desperate Connor's voice was a near yell, reverberating off the walls of the home, Achilles let out a humorless laugh. He paused and looked over his shoulder back at the boy.

"And say what? That my esteemed apprentice not only turned his back on me but used my very own teachings against me?"

Connor couldn't help but roll his eyes at his teacher's flawed logic. There was nothing stopping him from saying that!

"What does it matter?" the teenager exasperated. "He is still a Templar. All you did was send me against an opponent grossly unprepared and you expect me to ki—"

Then the realization hit him. Connor froze, slowly widening his eyes. He stared at Achilles, who looked away, his back to the boy. The Assassin took a step towards him, as if he expected the Mentor to run away.

"You do not _want_ him killed. That is why my father's portrait is down there—" The boy pointed at the floor, gesturing the basement. "—and not his." When Achilles said nothing, Connor glared at him for several more moments. "You still see Cormac as your apprentice."

"He _was_ my apprentice," the old man corrected in a tired growl. "And not only did he surpass me, but he proved he was right. I deserved my punishment—just like I'll deserve the day when you betray me."

Connor only blinked at the sudden accusation. No, it was not an accusation. It was like Achilles _knew_ what would happen. Like he was expecting it. The native was too off-guard with the comment to be properly offended. Instead, he stared in confusion as Achilles limbed away, leaving him alone.

* * *

Haytham sat at his desk, leaning against the comfortable back of his chair. The door was closed and for once, undisturbed. Night had fallen, so only a handful of candles lit the room, providing a gloomy atmosphere. A full bottle of French wine was beside the Grandmaster's elbow as he read a piece of parchment in the dim light.

Suddenly the peaceful silence was ruined as Haytham let out a roar. He jerked his arm, hitting the bottle with enough force to send it flying. He didn't notice it shatter onto the ground, the red liquid staining his favorite carpet. Instead, his eyes were trained on a single line of the letter.

 _William Johnson is dead._

Haytham's expression was stone-cold, even as his grip on the letter tightened. Some part of him wanted to reread Selah's account of the incident—as if to prove it was false—but his logic told him it was useless. Selah would never fabricate such nonsense, especially when it concerned the entire Order.

How could this have happened?! Both Shay and Selah—his finest subordinates—were in charge of Johnson's escort. Furthermore, William himself ensured that his prized town was always guarded from trespassers. A hare could not slip past the defenses. So how did—

Haytham's glare settled on another line of the letter, focusing on a single word that burned like hellfire.

 _Assassin._

Damn them. Damn them all. The Brotherhood had been a thorn in the Grandmaster's side for as long as he could remember, digging painfully under his skin since when he first came to the Colonies. The cowards had hired mercenaries to see him killed, then not to mention the countless assassination attempts on himself and his fellow Templar during the Seven Years' War. He had lost good men, but his Inner Sanctum had not only survived, but proved victorious.

Haytham had seen the Assassins eradicated to the very last man, woman, and child. He converted their safe houses to his personal cells and anyone with ties with the Brotherhood was exiled or killed. The Templars ruled the Colonies.

It was one thing to have one of their members killed, but a member of the Inner Sanctum _assassinated_ should be the least of their concerns. So _how_ was a _single_ Assassin able to fool an entire army of Templars—which was expecting him, no less—and disappear without a trace? Haytham's mind demanded a rational, a cause and effect to blame for this catastrophe, but he knew there was none. He couldn't even bring himself to target Selah, even though it wasn't long ago her insubordination had him pulling at his hair. No, he could see the torment in the girl just from her letter. The distracted wording of her account and the jagged lining of her handwriting (which was already below average) told the tremor in her hands.

No, Haytham could not bring himself to accuse her, nor Shay. Shay was too good, had given too much, to be reprimanded. Instead, the Grandmaster was concentrating his rage on another factor entirely.

The death of this Assassin. The British man tossed away the letter, unable to bear its presence any longer. With it out of sight, the man shifted his attention to another part of his desk. Letters from his contacts around Massachusetts. Or more specifically, the spies he sent to track down the Sons of Liberty. He suddenly remembered Selah's theory.

The Assassin was present during the Boston Tea Party, alongside the known rebels. She was convinced they were working together. It wasn't uncommon for Assassins to reach out to resourceful contacts, despite they claimed to be above such tactics. That reminder gave Haytham a brilliant idea.

If he could find the Sons, then they could lead him to this new thorn. He could have the secret organization away with, ending this foolish rebellion, and have the Assassin killed. Two birds, one stone. And he could return to his plans of removing British rule.

The Grandmaster snatched the first letter on the pile. No longer bothering with patience, he tore the envelope open and pulled out the piece of parchment within. He scanned a letter. Suddenly the stern, thin-lipped frown slowly turned into a smile as Haytham came across a promising line. Instead of rage, this string of words filled his chest with satisfaction.

 _The rat nest lies in Lexington._

* * *

 **Oohh, Haytham's mad. You guys know what happens when Haytham's mad. Sorry if Connor and Selah sounded whiny in this chapter, but to be fair, they have reasons to be upset. Selah just lost a loved one and Connor had a legitimate reason to be angry—Achilles was leaving out a pretty important detail. Bit of a filler chapter, but next one starts the next arc!**


	20. Part III: A Call to Arms

Connor blinked, staring. The piece of wood that had been once whole now lay in shreds across the ground, as if it was torn apart by a ferocious animal. However, the Assassin was well aware it was something far more dangerous than a predator, glancing over beside him.

Clipper was nodding in approval at his shot, tilting his rifle to clean the barrel from gunpowder. Smoke from the minor explosion still clung in the air, irritating Connor's eyes and leaving an acidic smell. While the native cringed at the discomfort, the other boy seemed immune. In under a minute, he had completed reloading his weapon, but instead of putting it back on his shoulder, he held it out to Connor.

"Your turn," the frontiersman offered.

Connor's face remained impassive as he took the rifle, even though his stomach knotted slightly. He had never been good with colonist weapons. They were clumsy and inaccurate compared to his acute arrows, not to mention the smoke and noise always made him involuntarily flinch.

It was not that he feared the weapon—because he didn't—but it triggered a reflex he did not want. Clipper agreed to help him improve, in return of inducting him into the Brotherhood.

Instead of parting ways like Connor expected, Clipper had followed him all the way to the Homestead, even after Kanen'tó:kon left them to return to the village. Clipper was curious when they arrived in the valley. Connor instantly knew the idea was unwise, but after everything they went through in John's Town, the Assassin knew he could trust him. The native told the frontiersman of the Assassin-Templar war and his desire to free the Colonies from the Knights' control. Naturally Clipper was skeptical about the idea of a shadow organization, but the prospect of a group of freedom fighters—of any kind—instantly won him over.

Since then, the young frontiersman had been living with him and Achilles on the Homestead. Connor would train him to be an Assassin—how to climb, how to sneak, how to kill, just like Achilles had taught him. In return, Clipper aided the native and Myriam in hunting and salvaging for food. With Warren and Prudence moving into the valley, they had more mouths to feed and since the couple was planning to have a child, there would be even more. Nonetheless, their farm was growing, however slowly. That and the money Connor received from trade and privateering with Faulkner, the Homesteaders had established a stable lifestyle for almost a year. By then, the Battle of John's Town was simply a bad memory.

Along with doing chores on the Homestead, Clipper also agreed to teach the Assassin some tricks, including shooting. Connor put the butt of the gun to his shoulder, just like he had been instructed. He put his eye over the barrel, like he had seen the frontiersman had done. Down his line of sight, he focused on the small piece of lumber standing ten yards away. Connor stared at it a moment more before breathing through his nose. He pulled the trigger.

As expected, a clap of thunder deafened his hearing and debris filled his vision, along with the horrid smell of gunpowder. Unexpectedly, the lumber was still relatively in one piece, only a scar left on its side. Nothing near Clipper's piece of wood, that was unrecognizable. While Connor huffed in frustration, the other boy only hummed.

"Now I see your problem," he observed. "You're closing your eyes when you pull the trigger."

"But I already took aim, does it matter?" Connor asked.

"Well, you can't shoot if you don't know where the bullet's going. You can't let the smoke irritate you. Keep your eyes open and try again."

The native sighed. Even though Clipper talked like the solution was simple, it was easier said than done. Nonetheless, Connor began cleaning the barrel in preparation for reloading. But once he was able to refill it with gunpowder, a voice interrupted him.

"Connor!" Both boys turned at the voice to see Achilles coming down from the manor. However, both directed their attention to a second figure. "You have a visitor."

It was a tall and lean silver-haired man. Most of his hair was was tied in a queue, but the rest was cut short to curl above his ears. He wore a rusty-brown waistcoat with a navy-blue cotton coat over it. Black trousers covered his legs, ending at his mud-covered black shoes.

Connor blinked and the two teenagers exchanged glances. Neither had ever seen the man in their life. Nonetheless, the older Assassin took the lead, meeting Achilles and the stranger halfway.

"What is this?" Connor couldn't help but ask.

"It seems you attracted the attention of the Sons of Liberty," Achilles reported, glancing over at his guest. While the native tilted his head in confusion, the man held out a hand with a warm smile.

"Joseph Warren, a pleasure to meet you," he introduced. Connor glanced at the extended palm before hesitantly accepting it. The gesture still felt strange to him.

"How did you find us?" the Assassin asked.

"Sam Adams told me you would be here," Warren explained. "If it helps, I forced it out of him."

"No, it does not. What are you doing here?"

Suddenly the warmth in Warren's eyes disappeared and his expression turned solemn. "I am afraid there is trouble in Boston."

Connor's eyes narrowed. "What sort of trouble?"

"The army didn't appreciate our public display at the wharf two winters ago. Soldiers now occupy Boston, taking homes and businesses as they please. Anyone they suspect of crime, no matter how little, is arrested, with no trial or hearing. They've already gotten several of our members."

Immediately the Assassin's gut knotted. He had heard whispers of strife in the city, but he had no idea things had escalated so drastically. This did not bode well. "Where is Sam Adams?"

"He and Hancock decided to lay low for a while. They are hiding out in the country, but I'm afraid they won't be safe for long."

"What happened?"

"Somehow word got out to the military. They have declared them wanted men of His Majesty. I've already been told they plan to send troops to Lexington to arrest them."

"Haven't you warned Adams about this?" Clipper spoke up, leaning on his rifle like Achilles did with his cane.

"I stopped receiving letters from him and my own have no reply. I fear they are being intercepted."

"When was this?" Connor questioned.

"About a month ago. His letter describing your deeds was the last I received from him. He had a lot to say about you, so I knew you could be trusted."

Connor didn't like where this was going. "I am sorry, you mistake me for one of your own. I am—"

"Connor," Achilles interjected. The teenager looked down at him, meeting the old man's serious glare. "Hear what he has to say."

The Assassin clipped his mouth shut and looked up at Warren. The man seemed to understand the boy's reluctance. He took a step closer, but made sure to stay out of the native's personal space.

"Please, Adams and Hancock are my friends," he said. "Not only are their lives in danger, but everyone else in the Colonies."

Connor felt uncertainty claw at his chest. His focus was on the Templars. Johnson's death meant nothing to them. Their reach still spread wide and it would take much more to release their tyrannical hold on the Colonies. He had already wasted enough time as it was. But, it was thanks to the Sons of Liberty in the first place that he was able to kill Johnson. Not only that, Connor saw that the organization and the Brotherhood did not have dissimilar views. Both treasured freedom, above all else. Connor stood in thought, weighing his options, when Achilles spoke up.

"May I add, Connor," he croaked. "That it didn't take long for the army to find the Sons of Liberty. There may be more to this than it seems."

The apprentice immediately understood. The Templars. There was no doubt they had a hand in this, if they weren't already pulling the strings. And if the army was involved… then there was a chance that John Pitcairn associated as well. It was a long shot, but if there was the opportunity for the Assassin to strike his enemy… he would take it. Connor looked to Warren.

"What can I do?" he asked.

Warren gave a slight nod of approval. "Paul Revere waits for you in Boston. I have enlisted him and William Dawes to assist in this endeavor."

Instead of replying, Connor simply nodded. He took a step to leave, but Clipper cut him off.

"May I join you?" the boy asked, picking up his weapon. "I know the roads pretty well."

For a moment, the Assassin considered taking his offer. No doubt it was a rough journey from Boston to Lexington—which the teenager was expecting to take—and Clipper's expertise would be helpful. However, if it was true that the redcoats were sending an army into the frontier, they had to be careful not to attract attention. Too many people would do just that. Besides, it seemed the Templars were eager to get rid of their enemies. And that included the Assassins, which the Order tried to attack more than once.

"No, Clipper," Connor decided. "Stay here with Achilles. Watch the valley."

The other boy immediately understood. He nodded, saying, "Whatever you say, boss."

With that, Connor stormed away, headed towards his next target.

* * *

Connor stalked through an alleyway, clinging to the shadows. He was just about to step into the light of a lantern when a familiar rhythm reached his ears. He paused at the corner of a building and cautiously peered around to look at the street beyond. Only when he did, he saw a column of British soldiers walk by, a neatly-dressed commander leading in the front and a drummer boy following behind. The men's steps were in perfect unison. For some reason, that always disturbed the native.

The Assassin wasn't expecting so much guard. Not even the night when the Sons attacked the wharf were there so many patrols. It seemed Warren wasn't exaggerating. Connor repeated the address the man had given him. Revere's home was only a few streets away. If he could just—

" _Quelqu'un m'aide_!"

The native blinked and cocked his head. It was then he registered loud grunts and laughter, followed by a string of words that Connor did not recognize. The Assassin narrowed his eyes and followed the sounds, staying low. Only when he found the source, he widened his eyes, appalled.

In the middle of the street, a man laid on his back with two ugly, burly men looming over him. Connor's eyes widened as one landed a kick to the man's chin, only to be followed by a hit from the other brute. The victim on the ground wailed and rolled to his side. He cried out in pain, putting his hands on his head to protect his skull.

Connor glanced down the street to see a pair of regulars near. The Assassin narrowed his eyes, remembering Warren's words. No doubt they would arrest the assaulters. The victim noticed them, too.

"Help!" he cried out, this time in English, but his words were lined with a strange accent.

Connor watched both soldiers pause at the sight, exchanging glances before looking back. They narrowed their eyes and curled their lips like they saw something disgusting. Then the soldiers turned on their heel and marched away. The Assassin widened his eyes and the victim looked after them, appalled.

"You are just going to let a man take a beating?" the poor man wailed. The plea was cut off as one of his assaulters landed his boot to his stomach, making him grunt.

Connor's blood boiled. If the soldiers weren't going to anything, then he would. Throwing caution to the wind, the warrior leaped from his hiding place and charged towards one of the brutes. The man didn't even notice his approach until the Mohawk slammed into him, throwing him to the ground. Connor landed on top of him, settling all his weight on his prisoner. As quickly as he could, the Assassin cocked back his fist and slammed it into the man's skull. He was out like a light.

Suddenly Connor heard a noise beside him. He glanced up to see the second assaulter nearing with a raised fist. The man threw a punch towards his head, only for the fighter to easily deflect it with his arm. Connor got to his feet, landing a sucker punch to the man's gut. The brute doubled over and crumbled to the ground.

"Oi! What's going on here?!" a voice shouted.

Connor looked over to see regulars, this time an entire patrol. Finally.

"These men were attacking this citizen," he said, waving his hand to the downed man. Instead of recognition, the commander sneered.

"Oh, is that so?" he hissed. "Cause all I see is a shifty crook caught beating on some innocent boys." Connor opened his mouth to interject, but the soldier was faster. "You are under arrest for battery and disturbing the peace. Put your hands where I can see them."

At his order, two of the redcoats stepped forward and aimed their muskets at him. Instead of obeying, Connor waved his hands by his side and shook his head. What was this? They were arresting him for trying to help? Two of their own didn't even do anything!

"If you want justice served, then you will find two soldiers that went that way," Connor turned and gestured the opposite direction of the street. "Maybe _they_ can tell you what really happened."

"I think I've seen enough," the commander snapped back. "Now hands up or my men will fire."

The teenager rolled his eyes and reluctantly did as he was told. He spread his legs apart as the regulars that had aimed at him neared, their weapons still drawn. The rest of the patrol lingered behind, glaring daggers at him, but the Assassin didn't pay them any mind. It wasn't until the two soldiers settled on either side of him that they finally lowered their weapons. One reached out to snatch his wrist, but he never had the chance.

In a blink of an eye, Connor twisted and landed a powerful punch to the man's jugular. He choked and grasped his neck, but before the warrior could watch him go down, he turned and sent a kick to the other's groin. The man cried and dropped his weapon to grab his crotch in pain. It allowed Connor to relieve him of his weapon, just in time to raise above his head to block a strike from the commander. The Assassin twisted to kick the man away, forcing him to stumble back.

He then twisted the musket around to wield it like a war club, slamming it into the lobster's head, dropping the firearm as he did so. There was _crack_ and the commander collapsed to the ground, unconscious. By now the rest of the patrol had raised their bayonets, surrounding Connor. The warrior settled into a battle stance, narrowed eyes glaring at his opponents.

The one to his right struck first. The soldier stabbed his bayonet towards Connor, but the teenager snatched the barrel of the weapon. He used his superior strength to force the butt into the owner's chin, snapping his head back. The Assassin shoved his opponent away, just in time to land a solid kick to another's shin. The man fell to the ground, allowing Connor to punch his temple, forcing him into unconsciousness. He turned around, only to be met with a man slamming into him, pressing his musket to the boy's throat.

Connor choked before snatching the barrel and pushed back. However, the opponent already put his weight behind his weapon, standing grounded even as Connor shoved against him. It was then the Assassin decided to improvise—he twisted his hold on the musket and whirled his body around. Like he anticipated, the redcoat stayed latched on, allowing the Mohawk to throw him to the ground. The soldier grunted and tried to climb back up, but a boot to his face quickly immobilized him.

"You think you got the best of us, eh?" a gruff voice snarled behind him.

Immediately the Assassin whirled around to be greeted with the tip of a bayonet, held by a regular with a feral look.

"Die with the rest of them, you damned rebel!" the soldier roared.

Connor braced for the pain of the musket ball entering his throat, but it never came. Suddenly there was a wet sound and the soldier's body went rigid. The teenager blinked as the man's face fell and he swayed. Then he saw the glazed eyes. Finally, gravity captured the corpse and he crumbled to the ground, face-first. In his place was the victim from before, panting and clutching a bayonet.

"One favor for another, eh?" the man scoffed, making a half-hearted smile. Connor, not expecting his help, stared at him for a moment before recollecting his thoughts.

"Uh, thank you," the boy stuttered.

"Well, you taught those _connards_ a lesson and went up against the soldiers, what do you expect me to do?"

He dropped the weapon, but before Connor could stop him, the man landed a kick to one of his assaulters, provoking an unconscious groan. The Assassin feared he would continue, but he just as quickly straightened and faced his savior.

Now that the threat was gone and the man stood in the lantern light, Connor could properly see who he saved. The man had a rugged appearance, with pale skin and black fur across his cheek, a red knitted hat covering the rest of his hair. He was tall and lean, but his arms and shoulders were broad. He wore black trousers with pale leather boots reaching his knees. A darker leather vest was over his undershirt, the thin fabrics reaching his elbows. It exposed the rest of his arms, allowing Connor to see them laced with scars.

"Why were those men attacking you?" the teenager asked.

"They had a little too much _bière_ and didn't like the sound of my voice," the man explained, once again filled with that strange accent. "I was only talking to that girl."

He gestured towards a tavern down the street, and Connor was able to put the story together. However, it seemed absurd to him that men would beat another just because of the sound of their voice.

"Your accent is unfamiliar," the boy observed. "Where are you from?"

"North of here," the man answered, tilting his head towards the direction. "Province _de_ Quebec."

"And what brings you to Boston?"

"I am a miner by trade, but it's hard to find work. People don't listen to me because of my accent."

Didn't Connor know the feeling… He had been among the colonists for several years now, but he still received glares when people noticed his skin color and heard his careful, slow speech. This man had the same struggle—all because he was French.

"It might be our meeting was fate," Connor commented. When the man cocked an eyebrow, the boy went on. "I hail from a village just a few miles north of here where there are beginnings of a mine. I do not know what is in there, but perhaps you might find what you are looking for within."

The Assassin came across the discovery during his training. A perfectly cut out hole in the cliffside, surrounded by rotting wood and rusty metal. When he mentioned it to Achilles, the old man explained he had considered constructing a mine the Assassins could use to build their own weaponry, but the idea was quickly abandoned. The Brotherhood had become concerned with more important problems. The stranger nodded at the news with approval and his eyes shone with glee.

"I'll come have a look," he decided. "If there's something good, maybe we'll talk, eh? May I ask for your name?"

"Connor," the Assassin answered. The man nodded.

"I like the sound of that. I am Maurice, but friends simply call me Norris. Thank you again, my friend."

Connor nodded as the man turned away with a wave. The boy meant to move away as well, only when he took a step, the ground shifted and he heard a moan. He looked down and winced when he noticed he had stepped on one of the soldiers. Gulping, he leaped over the fallen man and continued his way to his destination.

* * *

Connor didn't bother knocking as he barged through the door. He had wasted enough time as it was. However, the Assassin blinked at the sight that greeted him.

He instantly saw Paul Revere, a short, stocky man, wearing the same sage coat of the Boston Tea Party. But he was not alone. Two other men were with him. One was wearing a gray coat and had his hair tied in a queue, looking straight and formal. The other had more rugged features and wore pale blue coat. The two men stared at Connor's rude entrance while Revere stood by them, pouring hot tea. While his associates appeared baffled, the Son's face lit up.

"Ah, Connor! What a relief!" the man exclaimed, setting down the pot of tea. He moved towards the Assassin with open arms, like he wanted to embrace him. "You came! Allow me to—"

Revere placed a hand on Connor's shoulder and tried to push him forward, but reflex kicked in and the Assassin flinched at the touch. What was with colonists and their _touching_? Revere didn't seem fazed at the reaction instead continuing on to gesture to the pair of men, who stood up.

"—to introduce you to William Dawes and Robert Newman."

Both men nodded to the boy, who curtly nodded back. Connor shifted his attention to Revere.

"I have been told Adams and Hancock are in danger," the Assassin said.

"Aye," the Son affirmed, but he said it matter-of-factly instead of the solemn tone Warren had used. "As we speak, General Gage sends an entire legion led by Francis Smith to link up with Major Pitcairn's forces in the frontier."

Connor's eyes narrowed at the mention of the Master Templar. "Where is Pitcairn?"

"He's readying an assault on Lexington, where Adams and Hancock have taken shelter. After that, he'll march on Concord—hoping to seize our weapons and supplies. That's where you come in—we need as much help as we can get."

"Only tell me where to find him and I will put a stop to this."

Revere only shook his head at his solemn vow and walked away. "He has dozens, if not hundreds, of soldiers under his command. You cannot hope to match him by yourself. But fear not—for you will not have to! We have an entire army of our own—merely awaiting the order to take up arms!"

Revere threw his fist in the air excitingly while Connor took a step towards him.

"Then you must call upon them," the Assassin insisted.

"Indeed," Revere nodded. "You and I will cross the Charles River and rouse the boys!"

The energetic man practically yelled it, making Connor wince at the pressure on his ears. Suddenly Revere turned on his heels to face Dawes and Newman.

"William, I need you to take the overland route and do the same," he ordered. The man nodded and immediately headed towards the door. Revere then turned to Newman, placing a hand on his back as he practically pushed him out. "Robert, I need you to go to Christ Church. Light the lantern if you see our enemy approach. One if by land, two if by sea."

"I'll have it done," Newman promised as he slipped out the door. Revere nodded at his vow, holding the door open as he looked back to Connor.

"No time for dawdling, my friend!" he said. "We have lives to save! Come along!"

Not waiting to see if Connor was following, the plump silversmith rushed away. The Assassin stared after him, blinking. Then with a shake of his head, he lumbered after his new partner-in-crime. This was going to be a long night…

* * *

 **Poor Connor. Tries to do the right thing, but gets attacked by grumpy redcoats instead. If you didn't notice, I tried to slightly alter his motivation for going to Lexington and Concord. In the game, he solely did to find Pitcairn, but I changed it to that he genuinely wants to help the Sons the Liberty, but also knowing it could lead him to the Templars. I wonder who else is thinking like that?**

 **Historical Trivia:**

 **Dr. Joseph Warren was a close friend of Paul Revere and a member of the Sons of Liberty. He was the one that enlisted Revere and William Dawes to warn the militias (more specifically the Minutemen) of the coming British. I thought it would be interesting to introduce him instead of a random messenger delivering a letter. The army's mission was to arrest leaders Sam Adams and John Hancock—hiding in Lexington—as well as confiscate smuggled weapons in Concord. Paul Revere also enlisted** **Robert Newman** **, the sexton** **of the** **North Church** **, to send a signal by lantern to alert colonists in Charlestown** **as to the movements of the troops when the information became known.**


	21. Part III: Midnight Ride

Darkness wrapped around Connor like a thick blanket. The waters beneath him looked like ink, sloshing gently against the hull of the boat as he rhythmically stroked the surface with a pair of oars. The half-moon hid behind the clouds, but it wouldn't be for long. They had to get across the river, quickly. The Assassin eyed the large, bulky silhouettes upstream.

Next to them, lantern light illuminated the night like a beacon, shining on blood-red shades. Even from here, Connor could hear the clamor of weapons and voices drifting over the water. The King's men, delivered from Boston. He glanced towards the front of the boat to see Revere sitting across from him, also leering at the danger. Connor continued to row quietly and swiftly, heading towards the black shore.

Finally, the hull of the small boat grounded against the bank, just as the moon slipped out from behind the clouds. Revere didn't hesitate to leap out while the native glanced at the ships. They were around a bend now—none of the soldiers would see them. Still, Connor would rather be safe than sorry. He jumped out and took a hold of the boat. Bracing his muscles and digging his heels in, he pulled. He had to get it out of sight. He expected Revere to come and help him, but instead the man was already sauntering away.

"Huh, they only left us one horse," the Son observed, eying the speckled gelding tied to a branch. "We'll have to ride together."

Completely ignoring Connor's grunts and hisses of effort as he battled with the boat, Revere went over to the gelding. Instead of taking the reins, the man jumped up _behind_ the saddle.

"You take the reins, I'll navigate," he ordered nonchalantly. When Connor didn't immediately reply, he shouted, "Quickly, Connor! Get on the horse!"

Connor gave up. With a grunt, he let go of the boat and turned towards the man. Already his muscles were aching. With an annoyed hiss, the Assassin went over to the horse. After settling in the saddle and squeezing the horse's sides, they sped off into the night.

Connor vowed to give his life of service to the Assassin Brotherhood. To serve in the darkness in order to serve the night. That meant he would steal, sneak, and hide. He would never be seen by his enemy.

Obviously Paul Revere was not taught the same.

The man constantly nagged Connor, practically shouting in his ear—loud enough to deafen the poor boy and possibly alert any redcoats of their location. It was a miracle they were able to duck around several patrols without incident. The soldiers' presence made Connor's stomach knot. He did not know where they came from—either Pitcairn's men or scouts for the coming company. Either way, it meant the army was closer than they originally thought.

That meant they had to hurry to Lexington. And that meant more nagging from Revere. The Son continuously reminded Connor of their time limit, urging him to run the horse faster (and considering it was nearly pitch-black, the Assassin had no desire to do so). Aside from the fact the incompatible duo traveled through the forest all but blind, they were making progress.

Revere insisted stopping at every single homestead they came across to warn the residences of the coming danger—whether they may be militia or not. Connor was surprised that many did not react harshly to the news. Citizens took the news with solemn recognition while mercenaries lit up with a rebellious gleam. As Revere had said, the militias' response was immediate. The duo would come across a town militia and deliver the news, only for the men to automatically grab the nearest weapon. As they rode away, Connor would look over his shoulder to see another rider galloping away in another direction. Sometimes he would notice a band of men already disappearing into the woods

"What are they doing?" he asked his partner at one point.

"Mostly likely going to ambush the army—try to slow them down," Revere answered. A proud gleam appeared in his eye. "That's the Minutemen, for you."

The night went by relatively without incident, until...

Connor furiously kicked the gelding's sides, urging it to go faster. The horse whinnied and snorted in protest, but it reluctantly sped into a gallop, trying to balance the weight on his back. Revere's arms were wrapped around the native's waist in a death grip, and Connor had to remind himself not to turn around and punch the man. Instead, he focused on the musket balls that whizzed through the air, coming inches from them.

"Hurry, Connor!" Revere cried. "Faster! Faster!"

"Do you wish to lead?!" the Assassin snapped back.

The shouts of the regulars followed them as their pursuers stayed close behind them. Damnit, Connor knew something was wrong! The "town" was only made of a few poorly built houses, but as they neared the residence that was supposedly the home of Revere's friend, the native noticed there were quite a number of footprints in the mud. And considering the town was deathly quiet, it didn't add up. Now an entire squadron of soldiers chased them. Connor thanked the Spirits none of them had a horse. All they had to was get to the woods…

Connor's heart stopped as suddenly world lurched forward and the horse screamed. The Assassin's stomach flipped when the ground rushed up to meet him, only for his body to jar from the violent impact. Connor grunted as dirt cloaked his tongue, but he spat it out with disgust. A groan from Revere told the Son had similar treatment.

The native glanced up to see the gelding flailing on the ground, desperately trying to clamber to his feet. Connor had a pang of guilt when he realized what happened. He must have trying to push the horse too hard when he was unable to bear so much weight, forcing the animal to trip on his own feet. It was a miracle they weren't crushed. The warrior cursed at his foolishness, but it was too late. Already the sound of racing footsteps was upon them.

"Revere!" Connor shouted as he leaped to his feet, tomahawk in hand.

Revere, disoriented from the fall, merely blinked. Then he had the sense to look over his shoulder, only to see a burly man with a bayonet looming over him. The rebel gave a scream of fright and raised his arm to protect his head, but Connor knew it would be useless. Before the grenadier could skewer Revere's neck, the blade of the Assassin's tomahawk was buried in the brute's temple.

The man stood still for a moment, arms still raised, as a look of shock and pain fell across his face. Then his eyes glazed and the corpse fell to the ground. Just in time for two more redcoats appear.

They were infantry, but they did not wear the standard uniforms. Nonetheless, Connor met them head on, hidden blades unsheathed. He struck a blade at a man's throat, but the soldier was faster. In a blink of an eye, the man ducked out of the way and hooked his arm around Connor's. Just as quickly, the soldiers rolled over the Assassin's back, using his weight and momentum to bring the boy with him. But Connor was stronger.

As the man threw him, Connor twisted to plant his feet on the ground, instead throwing the soldier to the ground. The man let out a wail of surprise and disappointment, but it was interrupted when the Assassin struck a hidden blade in his throat. His opponent finished, Connor looked up to see Revere sparring with another soldier. He tensed his muscles to lunge over and help the Son, but he quickly realized it was not needed.

Revere parried an attack from the soldier, only to barely avoid a bayonet to his eye. The attack made him duck back, giving him enough room to pull out his flintlock and aim it at the redcoat's face. Just as the infantryman widened his eyes, a clap of thunder filled the air and a cloud of smoke appeared. The soldier fell.

Connor stared at the rebel, somewhat surprised and impressed. He didn't expect Revere, a simple silversmith, to be able to hold his own against a trained soldier. Then again, the man did well guarding an entire ship from waves of them. The man clipped his pistol to his belt before he glanced at the Assassin.

"What?" he questioned.

Connor was about to reply, but didn't have the chance. Another _crack_ filled the air and he heard a musket impact the stone next to his foot. The warrior snapped his neck to see almost a dozen redcoats sprinting towards them, bayonets in hand as they screamed insults and orders.

"RUN!" Connor screamed, taking off from his spot.

Revere gapped his jaw at the event before looking back and forth between the Assassin and the incoming mob of angry regulars. He put two and two together before letting out a yelp. He did several steps backwards until finally turning around and running towards the horse. Connor ran after him, making sure to reclaim his tomahawk from the downed grenadier.

The pair of runaways leaped onto the horse, ignoring the poor animal's snorts of protest. Instead, Connor violently kicked his sides even before he was properly on the saddle. Despite his reluctance, the gelding sped off into the woods. Immediately the canopy cloaked them in shadow and thick brush hid them from the sights of their pursuers. Even though Connor was almost blind, the horse was able to weave between the trees without difficulty, unhindered that there was no road.

Connor gave a relieved sigh as the shouts behind them faded, swallowed by the forest. He slowed the horse to a steady canter, though the beast tossed his head, wanting to stop altogether.

"Whew, that was far too close for comfort," Revere sighed. The man paused as Connor steered the horse onto a dirt road, narrow and unused. Good, it meant they were less likely to run into patrols. However, just as Connor led the horse down the path, Revere shouted again. "Wait! We're near Prescott's place! This way, Connor!"

The Assassin groaned as the order was once again a yell and the man pointed _away_ from the trail. Nonetheless, the teenager tugged the reins, leading the horse further into the woods. He wondered what got Revere so excited, and then he noticed a lone cabin. It was surrounded by a grove of trees, so it would be easily missed if one wasn't looking. It was only because of the lone lantern beside the front door that Connor noticed it. Still, it seemed fairly too small to be housing a militia.

"We should find Samuel Prescott here," Revere explained as he ungracefully slid off the horse. "He's lived in these parts for his entire life. There's no better man that can point us in the right direction."

Apparently completely forgetting the fact the pair barely survived an ambush, the Son strutted to the front door without a second thought. Connor joined him on ground and raised a hand to stop him, but the man's shoulder slipped just out of reach. The boy sighed and rolled his eyes, but dutifully followed. He paused as Revere knocked on the door. As they waited, the Assassin scanned the area, more alert for threats. He didn't see any sign of redcoats, nor did he any sign of _anyone_. He looked back as Revere pounded again, harder.

"Where the devil is he?" Revere exclaimed.

"Are you certain you have the right place?" Connor questioned.

"Of course I'm certain! C'mon, we'll check 'round back."

The man sauntered away from the door as the teenager followed. Only when they stepped around the corner, a pale figure appeared before them. Connor flinched in reflex, only to widen his eyes when he realized it was a woman. Completely naked.

Her chest was in full view of the pair of jaw-dropped men. The brunette gave a squeak and covered her breasts before sprinting away, disappearing into the woods as quickly as she appeared. The duo couldn't help but stare after her, still trying to process what just happened. They didn't have a chance to recall what they had seen as they heard as another set of footsteps.

"Prescott...?" Revere gasped.

This time it was a man with dark hair and a thick beard covering his face. He only wore a plaid green shirt ...and a pair of underwear. Connor made the mistake of glancing down at his crotch, only to gulp and quickly glance back up. Completely unaware of his visitors' dumbfounded expressions, the man greeted them warmly with a salute.

"Evening, gents!" he said with a slurred voice. Even though he was standing still, he swayed.

"Listen, the regulars are out," Revere reported. "We need you to come with us." He glanced at the man's groin while Connor found an interesting tree to look at. "And, um... put on some trousers."

"Why, of course!" The man disappeared back in his home with a nod. Now it was Revere's turn to groan with a shake of his head.

"Oi…"

The pair waited several minutes for Prescott to fix himself up and ready his horse. Connor figured in the man's drunken state, he could never pull himself together, but he moved with surprising swiftness. He leaped onto the saddle of his horse with ease, now fully dressed with sage coat. He nodded to Revere and Connor, who nodded back and the group cantered back towards the road.

Thankfully Lexington wasn't far, as Prescott's hideaway was only on its outskirts. The town was more organized than the other frontier settlements Connor had visited that night. A few large buildings were even constructed from brick instead of salvaged wood. The boy even noticed a small church with a tower looming over the small town. The buildings were spread out with dirt roads between them, large fields of farms stretched out beyond.

"Hmm… no sign of Dawes," Revere observed as they rode through the town's center. "I hope he's alright."

Connor's stomach twisted. If Dawes encountered as many patrols as they did, Revere had a right to be worried.

"He took the longer route, no?" Prescott spoke up. "It's probably taking him more time. He'll get here eventually."

Revere hummed while the horses cantered through dirty streets. They came to a large whitewashed building; this one actually having two-stories. Connor pulled the reins, instructing the horse to a stop beside the house as he got off. Revere and Prescott followed his example. As the Assassin neared the front door, he noticed the shutters were closed tight and no noise came from inside.

 _Makes sense,_ he thought. _Make the house seem abandoned so no one will suspect they're here._

Connor paused before taking the handle, glancing back at Revere, who nodded. Taking that as permission, the Assassin opened the door and stepped inside. He blinked when he was greeted by darkness, not even a single candle lit. However, the two colonists didn't seem concerned, already making their way to the living room.

It seemed to be the only room that was lit, illuminated by a dancing fire in the hearth. Around the fire were three wooden chairs, all occupied. Connor recognized Adams and Dawes, but the third man was a stranger. He wore a burgundy coat and his silver hair was tied in a queue. So that must have been John Hancock.

The fugitives faced the fire, not even turning at the newcomers' approach. Only Adams spared a glance, but it was short.

"Ah, Paul. Connor. Good to see you," the rebel leader greeted, but his tone was strangely flat. Connor didn't hesitate. The army couldn't be far behind.

"You need to leave," he warned. "The redcoats are coming."

"I'm afraid they are the least of our problem," Hancock muttered.

Connor squinted and tilted his head. What? Then he heard a single creak and rattle of weapons behind him. He whirled around, only to feel the end of a flintlock pressed against his throat.

"It seems your warning came too late, _Assassin_."

A chill crawled up Connor's spine.

"Selah," he breathed, raising his hands.

The young Templar glared at him, her dark eyes filled with the fury she had been holding the last year. Along with the fury she held against the Sons, which only made her gaze that much more frightening. Looking into her fearsome eyes, Connor truly wondered if it was possible for one person to hold so much hatred. Then again, he asked himself that every day.

He glanced over to see several more Templars step into the light, guns pointed at the Sons' backs. Immediately Revere and Prescott raised their hands. A sweat broke out on Prescott's brow and Revere turned a deathly pale.

"Selah, this is a mistake," Connor said carefully.

"The only mistake I made was letting you live in Boston," Selah replied, her voice both cold and filled with regret. "Now Johnson is dead because of it."

"Then your quarrel is with me. Let the Sons of Liberty go."

Selah's eyes narrowed into slits. "I didn't come just for you. I'm here to deliver justice for the lives these men have stolen."

"What are you talking about?" Adams spoke up.

The angry Templar glared at them. "I guess you wouldn't know, would you? Too caught up in your rebellion to see the damage your crusade causes." She turned to Connor. "But now that I understand it's you Assassins behind it all, that doesn't surprise me."

Unfortunately Revere heard the last bit. "I'm sorry, come again?"

"Quiet!" Selah snapped, unsheathing her sword and placing its tip on the man's throat. Revere straightened and gulped.

Though he kept a stony-face, Connor's heart leapt with panic. So the Templars believed the Sons were part of the Brotherhood. And his coming here had only convinced them even more. A pang of guilt struck the Assassin's chest. He had to come to help, but he had only put the Sons of Liberty in more danger.

"Selah," Connor dared to speak up. The Templar looked back to him. "They have nothing to do with this fight."

"They're the ones causing this fight! They would throw this whole continent in war just to pursue their own gains."

"They only wish to see this land free. It is the army that sends their men to a fight."

"And it was the Sons that spilled innocent blood."

"Never!" Adams interjected. Selah sent a death glare in the man's direction.

"Then what of the grave of a little girl your drunken miscreants murdered?"

The rebel leader's eyes widened. "What? That can't be…"

"Like I said, you don't even know the consequences of your actions."

"And it was _your_ actions that started all this in the first place," Connor interrupted. The Templar shifted her gaze by to him. "When you caused the Boston Massacre."

Instead of a cold gaze like Connor expected, a strange flash appeared in Selah's eyes. Her next words were a murmur.

"No one was supposed to be hurt…" she breathed. Connor raised his eyebrows, but quickly recovered and continued his argument. He had to quell her anger before they all were killed.

"No one is supposed to get hurt tonight," the Assassin pressed. "Walk away, Selah."

The teenager hoped he finally had gained some ground, but that strange look vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by that furious glare.

"No one will, when you and the Sons of Liberty are dead," Selah growled.

"Please, don't do this," Adams spoke up. "You can still reconsider."

Selah turned to him. "There is nothing to reconsider. I hereby declare you enemies of the British Empire."

Connor acted quickly.

While Selah glanced away, he slammed his arm against her elbow, forcing her to lower her gun. The Templar yelped in surprise, but before she could slice poor Revere's throat, the Assassin rammed into her, throwing her to the floor. The Sons of Liberty didn't hesitate.

Adams, Hancock, and Dawes leaped to their feet, charging for the Templars. Revere whirled around to face his captor, sword drawn. Prescott, acting quickly, simply elbowed his guard's chin, knocking the Templar unconscious. Meanwhile, Connor settled his weight on Selah, pinning her down. But the rebellious Templar would not be defeated so easily.

Without warning, Selah's fist shot out, striking Connor's eye with surprising strength. The Assassin grunted as his neck was snapped to the side, but he wasn't dazed enough to miss hearing the sound of metal sliding against metal. With supreme reflexes, he snatched Selah's wrist, right before she could bury her hidden blade in his throat.

Connor's eyes widened. So she also had one… Then that meant…

The Assassin leaned out of the way just in time to avoid the Templar's second blade. However, the action forced him to shift his weight on Selah, allowing the older warrior to raise a leg. Connor wailed as she kneed him between his legs, forcing him to move away. But before he could flee in time, his vision flashed as Selah's boot landed on his chin. He crashed on the floor, groaning.

Hissing, the boy shook his head, but forced himself to his feet. Selah did likewise, grabbing her sword and holding it out in front of her. Once Connor had straightened, he unsheathed both his hidden blades. The two stared at each other for several moments before Selah charged first.

She swiped her sword at Connor's chest, but he deflected it with his hidden blade. The Templar followed it up with a kick, but the Assassin stepped out of range just in time, only to knock into one of the chairs. It gave him an idea.

Just as Selah lunged for him again, the Mohawk warrior snatched the wooden chair and swung it around, striking the Templar full force. The piece of furniture broke on impact and the woman cried as sharp splinters dug in her skin. Taking advantage of her weakened state, the Assassin charged, this time tomahawk drawn. He meant to strike the blade down on her, but the Templar's endurance was greater than he thought.

At the last second, Selah was able to bring her arm up to defend herself, using her hidden blade to block Connor's attack. But before the Assassin could use his superior strength to throw her to the floor, Selah twisted her arm to deflect the Mohawk's weapon away, leaving him exposed. Connor leaped back as the Templar swiped her second blade at his chest, hissing as it tore fabric and his skin. Selah kept up the assault, sending one hidden blade iat a time, alternating between stabbing and slicing at her opponent.

Connor leaned out of the way when the woman sent a blade towards his face. The action gave him an opportunity to counterattack. The warrior snatched the Templar's arm and turned around, twisting her limb along with it. Selah let out a cry, but it was cut short as Connor grabbed her collar. With a strained groan, he heaved her over his shoulders and slammed her onto the floor. But before the Assassin could approach his fallen prey, Connor yelped as something slammed into him with enough force to send him to the ground, a weight on top of him.

"Sorry…" Revere whined, awkwardly trying to disentangle himself from the boy.

Annoyed and panicked, Connor tried to shove the man off, only to see a Templar racing towards them, sword drawn. The Assassin tried to fumble for his flintlock, but his arm was stuck beneath him and the floor, and Revere's dead weight didn't help. With another growl, the Mohawk gave the man another shove, freeing his arm. As quickly as he could, Connor pulled out his pistol and fired. The mercenary fell with a thud.

The threat gone, the duo scrambled to their feet, only for Revere to let out a cry as a blur raced towards him. Selah swiped her sword at the rebel's neck, who just raised his own blade just in time. It blocked the attack, but the Templar was already cocking back her arm for another strike. Acting quickly, Connor forced his way between them and twisted, planting a kick to the girl's stomach. Selah stumbled back with a yelp, but stayed on her feet.

The Assassin used his size to make a barrier between the Templar and Revere, glaring defiantly at Selah. The woman only glared back, eyes blazing. With a snarl, she dug her heels in the floor and charged. Connor swiped with his tomahawk at her neck, but the older warrior ducked, slicing out her sword. But because of the poor angle, she could only slice across his leg, but it made the native cry out in pain. He reacted quickly but unsheathing his hidden blade… burying it in Selah's stomach.


	22. Part III: Not According to Plan

Selah screamed as pain erupted from her stomach, _feeling_ the cold metal of the blade beneath her skin. Even though her mind was immediately enveloped with agony, her body could still function without command. She leapt back, as far away from the source of danger as possible. The Templar immediately placed her palm on the wound, only to feel blood at her fingertips. Fiery pain spread across her belly, but she didn't feel agony pulsing from her core.

 _It's not deep… It's not deep…_

That was the only assurance Selah had as she struggled to stay on her feet. She moved just in time, or else the blade would've have done more damage. Still, whatever part of her rational that was still functioning realized there was no way she would've been that lucky. The Assassin was trying to kill her. Unless… _he held back_.

The attack was sloppy. The strike was closer to her side, not the center or close to her arteries. Lucky, indeed. Still, Selah was backing away from the Assassin like the cornered animal she now was. The flickering light of the hearth danced across the killer's ivory robes, the shadow of his hood hiding his features. Only a cold, stone jaw showed. A truly sinister sight. The same one she saw in Boston. The same one she saw in John's Town.

Selah trembled. How she _hated_ him. How he reminded her of everything she loved and feared. How he reminded her of her regrets and prides. How he reminded her of _him_.

"No… you're not—" she stuttered. "You're not—!"

She couldn't finish her sentence as the world spun and her body went numb. Selah cried as she slammed on the ground, only for the room to toss and turn like she was on the _Morrigan_. The Templar hissed and swallowed down the bile climbing up her throat. No, not like this. She would not die like this. Not when the Order—no, the Colonies, the _world_ —was relying on her.

With a grunt, Selah placed her palms on the floor. Using what strength she had left, she poured all her will into her limbs. She pushed herself up—her wound searing in agony—but ignored it… only to feel a cold blade on her throat.

"I would stay down, if I were you," Hancock's voice rumbled above.

Selah glanced up to see the man standing above her, features as dark as the Assassin. In the corner of her vision, she saw the other Sons of Liberty also glaring down at her. Her already injured stomach twisted when she realized. The mercenaries were dead.

"It seems the tables have turned, haven't they, girl?" Hancock continued, his tone almost mocking. Selah glared up at him, fangs bared.

"Anyone know what to do with her?" Dawes spoke up, staring curiously at her.

"I say we tie 'er up, stuff 'er in a sack, and toss 'er out back," Prescott suggested gleefully.

"I rather not be so violent, Prescott," Adams drawled.

"Amusing you are the one to say that," Selah scoffed. "When you are the ones that have been spreading strife. And you call yourselves the 'will of the people.'"

"Then perhaps you don't know the public as well as you think you do," Adams chided.

"I know what's _best_ for them."

"I would not waste your breath," a clear voice spoke up.

Selah glanced over to see the Assassin stepping closer. From her angle, the light of the flame washed over his face, revealing strong features and dark brown eyes. His skin was almost a reddish color, almost like… Selah gasped. So the Assassin was a native.

She stared at him, trying to prove what she saw was real. No, it wasn't a trick of the light. But that made no sense! Why would a native seek the death of William Johnson? Why would a native join a rebellion? She didn't have time to think about it as the man continued.

"She came here to kill you," he said, turning to Hancock and Adams. "And I am sure she has her reasons."

Selah almost tilted her head. It almost sounded like he was _defending_ her. Even stranger, Adams frowned in what seemed a look of guilt.

"I'm sure she does," he sighed. "Not everyone has us in their favor. I'm only glad you came when you did."

"And that brings me to another subject." The Assassin turned back to her, staring down at her, looming over her like a giant. "You knew I would come. How?"

Selah snorted with a cynical smirk.

"The Grandmaster suspected you were involved," she explained. "I had to see if he was right, and apparently he was." She rolled her eyes. "I guess that's not surprising."

"So all of this was a trap... to lure me."

"And you fell for it. Just like John's Town."

"Pity that failed. Just like tonight."

"The only thing that will fail is _you_ ," Selah snarled. "Along with the civil war these men will cause if they are not stopped."

"They only wish for the freedom of the Colonies," Connor argued.

"Freedom!? They will destroy us all!"

"You mistake us with Parliament," Adams interjected. "They only care for their spoils of war and politics, not their subjects."

"And do you think people want a war?" Selah snapped.

"I hate to interrupt," Revere suddenly spoke up, severing the tense air. "But we have an entire army on the way to take our heads. Do we have an idea how to deal with that?"

Adams sighed through his nose and shook his head. "You're right. Now is not the time for this conflict." He glanced at her. "John, let her go. There should be a doctor down the street. We'll take her there and make sure she doesn't get into any trouble."

To Selah's surprise, Hancock sheathed his sword and bent down beside her. The Templar initially tried to shove him off, but he proved stronger and he hauled her to her feet. The woman swayed as her legs trembled, but stayed upright as she was passed to Dawes. He looked unhappy at his newfound burden, especially as Selah sent him another deadly glare. She glanced at her flintlock and sword, both lying on the floor, out of reach. She still had her hidden blades, fighting the urge to unsheathe them. No, not yet.

"Wait, remove her bracers," the Assassin spoke up. Selah cursed. Damn Assassin!

"Huh, why?" Revere questioned.

"There is… a blade in them. Remove them, now!"

Selah now concentrated her death glare at the killer, but he seemed unfazed. While the girl was distracted, Dawes snatched her wrist and turned it over, only to see the gleaming mechanisms of her hidden blade.

"What in the world…" he breathed. Selah rolled her eyes. To hell with it.

As quickly as she could, she unsheathed her hidden blade. Dawes yelped and jerked back, barely avoiding the contraption going in his eye. Immediately the Templar heard multiple swords being drawn. Acting quickly, she spun around, sending Dawes slamming into Revere. Both men fell onto the floor in a heap of twisted limbs.

"Connor!" Adams shouted.

Immediately the Assassin (Connor, that was his name) pounced towards her, but this time Selah was ready. Hoping to repay the favor of her wound, she unsheathed her second hidden blade and drove it towards the freedom fighter's stomach. Seeing the attack, he leaped back, pulling out his tomahawk to start a fight. Before he could lunge, however, Adams approached her first.

Sword above his head, the rebel leader prepared to bring it down on her, only to be deflected by the Templar's hidden blade. Once he was exposed, Selah landed a powerful kick to his stomach—summoning a wave of agony from her own—which sent him flying. Then as quickly as she could, the woman spun around and dashed down the corridor. She heard the heavy footsteps of the Assassin chasing her, provoking her to grab an expensive-looking side table and throw it across the floor. It took considerable effort and valuable seconds, but she prayed her ploy would make up for it.

She barged through the front door, only to stumble on the steps leading to the porch. Selah screeched as she tumbled onto the dirt road, landing on all fours. She hissed as soreness pulsed across his body in waves, but pushed the discomfort to the back of her mind. Along with the agonizing pain in her stomach. One hand on her gruesome wound, she gathered strength in her muscles and she pushed herself up onto her feet.

The Templar stood just in time to hear a breathy snort, looking up to see a speckled horse tied beside the house. Selah jogged towards it and snatched its reins. The animal nickered in surprise and protest, but the woman ignored it as she jumped onto the saddle and spun the horse around, squeezing its sides.

Selah disappeared into the night.

"Well, it looks like we'll be walking home, then," Revere groaned.

Connor gritted his teeth as he saw the silhouette of Selah galloping down the road and disappearing around the corner. Riding _their_ horse. It was no use going after her. By the time he got on a horse and got onto her trail, she would be gone. The teenager cursed. They were so _close_.

Knowing nothing could be done, he went back inside to where the other Sons stood, still baffled by what just happened.

"Is everyone alright?" the Assassin asked.

"Yes, thank you, Connor," Adams sighed, rolling his shoulder, which was no doubt sore from either the brute of the man he sparred with or Selah's attack.

"To think we were concerned about Boston," Hancock sighed, shaking his head. Connor looked to Adams.

"We need to get you out of here," the native told him. Adams nodded.

"Yes, I know." He looked at Hancock. "There is another place Hancock and I can stay. But we need someone to hold off the soldiers while we do so." Then rebel then turned to Revere. "We must warn our men in Concord as well."

Revere nodded back. "Prescott, Dawes, and I will ride on."

"Very well. We'll ask John Parker to hold the town."

"Isn't he just a farmer?" Prescott questioned.

"By trade," Adams confirmed. "But the boys of this town will look up to a veteran like him."

"Will it be enough?" Connor asked. The rebel leader wore a solemn look.

"Probably not. But it'll buy us time." It was then Adams stared at the floor for a moment before he approached the Assassin. "I never wanted it to go this far. I just wanted to send a message to Parliament—and I'm afraid they heard me a little too well. But I rather fight for my beliefs than be another slave to those fat bastards." Adams paused before he could invade Connor's personal space, looking him dead in the eye. "I'm so sorry we got you in the middle of this—truly I am. But I'm afraid we must ask for your help a final time."

Connor didn't answer, instead going silent. He remembered Achilles's teachings that the Assassins were always meant to prioritize the Brotherhood. And tonight he came too close to compromising it—between the several patrols he barely avoided and the fight with the Templars. He certainly wasn't expecting such an eventful night. Furthermore, it was fair to say his debt to Adams was paid. Adams came to him when the boy was in need of help—even when he didn't know it. Connor was able to do the same tonight, even though he came to the leader's rescue a little too late. However, the native still couldn't help but note the irony.

It was only several years ago he had to look up to Adams to help him escape Boston. Now it was the other way around. Adams was looking up at him—quite literally—and asking for assistance in his own escape. A boy he barely knew anything about, except that he was student of an old friend.

It wasn't only that. The Assassin Brotherhood didn't just fight for themselves. They fought for the will of the people. If he walked out tonight, he would be ignoring the will of three million citizens. Connor sighed.

"I will help you," the Assassin rumbled. A broad smile spread across Adams's face.

"Then let's show those lobsters what it means to be an American, eh?"

Selah hissed and let out a small groan as she tightened the gauze around her torso. The pain had turned to a steady throb, but the Templar was able to make herself ignore it. Including the large stains of blood that now ruined her clothes. Her wandering mind had the thought that Haytham would stop buying her clothes if she came back with another ruined outfit. Oh, well.

"Milady, we ought to find you a doctor," a male voice rumbled.

Selah glanced behind her to see the patrol commander staring at her, a deep frown on his face and eyebrows furrowed. She guessed she couldn't blame him. Even the gentle John Pitcairn would have him hanged if the major learned his subordinates were responsible of the death of his favorite ally. But Selah had no plans to die tonight. She turned back around.

"I'm fine," she said curtly. "Make sure your men are in position."

"As you wish, milady," the commander replied, even though the woman could still hear the reluctance in his voice.

She heard him saunter off, his boots crunching on leaves, before shouting orders to the rest of the patrol. Selah was still adjusting to the authority she now had over men. It was one thing to order lowly Templars on behalf of Haytham or a member of the Inner Sanctum, but it was different commanding trained soldiers. But Pitcairn had allowed her that privilege. She simply had to give his name and if necessary, show his letter, and any marine would follow her word.

Once the soldiers had settled, Selah scrambled up a nearby tree. Her stomach ached at the action, but she pushed on until she was balancing on her heels on a branch that hung over the road. Several other branches filled with leaves surrounded her, so she wouldn't be noticed from anyone on the ground below. Besides, they would be too busy minding the redcoats blocking the way.

The Templar waited patiently for what seemed like eternity until the sound of thundering hooves came from the distance. She braced her muscles, but did not move. No, not yet. This was a populated route. She had to see if they were the right ones. Down below her, she also saw the soldiers anticipating the incoming company. Instead of looking at them, Selah focused down the road. She only waited for a few more moments until the newcomers came into view. They approached the roadblock, only to slow when the commander stepped forward, a hand raised.

"Halt!" the man ordered.

Immediately the travelers did as he commanded, slowing their horses. The animals let out snorts and whinnies as they came to a stop.

"Is there a problem, officer?" one rider, a man, asked as the commander settled next to him.

"We have to check every man passing through," the commander explained. "What is your business?"

"Traveling to a friend's house."

"At this ungodly hour? And who is this man?"

"What? A British citizen can't travel around his own country with liberty?"

"I asked you a question, sir."

Instead of answering, the three travelers exchanged uncertain glances. Above them, Selah braced her muscles, filled with excitement and disappointment. It was a shame the Assassin was not here, like she expected, but they would have to make do.

Revere, Dawes, and Prescott were oblivious to her presence as the Templar shifted to balance right above them.

She didn't miss the nod Prescott sent in Revere's direction, who nodded back. The silversmith kicked his horse's sides with a yell, but Selah was faster.

Just as the beast reared, forcing the British commander to jump back, the woman fell from her perch. She landed on Revere, using her weight and momentum to throw him to the ground. The man screamed as he was yanked from the saddle and crashed into the dirt, Selah on top of him. His horse whinnied in protest, along with the other animals as the soldiers started to shout.

"Dawes, Prescott, run! RUN!" Revere screamed and Selah pressed his head against the ground. She slammed the butt of her flintlock to silence him, but it was too late.

A horse's scream sounded behind her, along with a man's yell. She looked over her shoulder to see a steed barging through a wall of regulars and tearing down the road. However, one horse stayed behind, a soldier trying to steal the reins while another grabbed the man's coat. Prescott tried to wrench free with gritted teeth, snarling curses at his captors.

However, before the redcoat could overpower him, the rebel landed a fist to the man holding his arm. The regular fell back with a cry, allowing Prescott to snatch his pistol and slam it against the other captor's head. Now free, the fugitive whirled his horse around and kicked its sides.

Selah's eyes widened in surprise and dismay as he steered the beast toward a wall blocking out the woods and jumped over it. Immediately Prescott disappeared into the darkness, the hooves of his steed retreating into the forest.

"Stop them!" Selah roared. "Don't let them get away!"

Immediately the soldiers scrambled in every different direction, yelling contradicting orders. She rolled her eyes. Maybe they weren't trained soldiers. The Templar got off of Revere, a private taking her place, rope in hand. As she rose to her feet, she swayed as the world panned. Selah caught herself from falling over, holding out her hands for balance. When did it become so dark?

The Templar gritted her teeth. Prescott and Dawes were still out there. They had lived in the frontier almost all their life, while the redcoats that pursued them were fresh from the city. Selah was the only one who had a chance to find them, but she couldn't. She had to get to Boston. _Now_.

Selah went over to a horse. She pushed herself up, only for agony to ripple across her body. The woman hissed and almost fell back down, but pushed the pain away and settled onto the saddle. She tried to look straight and tall as the commander approached her.

"They couldn't have gotten far," the Templar told him. "Have your men scout the area. And I want Revere escorted to Major Pitcairn in Lexington."

"As you wish, milady," the commander replied, nodding.

Without another word, Selah rode off.

Goddamn, how much _longer_?

Selah groaned as another wave of agony came from her wound, seeming like it was rippling across her body. She pressed her palm against it, only to feel wetness. She glanced down to see a crimson shade staining the white gauze over her clothes. She let out another whine as she tilted her head back.

She tried to straighten in the saddle, but instead hunched over the horse's neck, her brow brushing against its mane. The world wouldn't stop spinning. She wanted to tell the horse to stop, but her muscles wouldn't obey the command to pull. The woman just hoped the damned animal knew where it was going. Where even was she?

Selah couldn't will herself to rise and look around. Everything looked the same, anyway. She instead tried to measure her breathing, but it only came out fast, shallow. Her heart wasn't much better. And why was it so _cold_? She was sweating moments before.

Shivering, Selah forced herself to rise, only to let out a cry as it stretched the muscles of her abdomen, and so her wound. Her body swayed and the world turned. The moon's light was dim and darkness surrounded her vision. She tried again to straighten, but only to have the same result. Giving up, Selah leaned back down, only to miss the horse.

The Templar cried as the ground rushed up to meet her. She tried to use her hands to cushion her fall, but they did nothing to stop the awkward fall. A jolt of pain came from her ankle as it twisted in the stirrup. The horse snorted and bounced, freeing her trapped limb, but officially dumping her on the dirt ground.

Selah moaned. She didn't know long she passed out. Only the world faded in and out of her vision. Suddenly a noise pierced her muted senses. The woman forced her eyes to open, only to a dark silhouette above her. What…? She felt something strong wrap around her with another strange noise. The ground disappeared beneath her.

"Don't worry, I have you," a clear, accented voice whispered.

Selah closed her eyes.

"Where is Benjamin Church?"

The harsh voice brought Selah back to the living.

"He's with a guest right now," a nasally voice replied. "You'll—" Another strange sound. "Hey!"

Selah winced as a loud bang assaulted her hearing.

"Church!" the harsh voice yelled.

"What in blazes?!" a male yelped. Something in the back of the Templar's mind was able to identify it as the esteemed physician.

"Good Lord," an unfamiliar tone exclaimed. "What happened to her?"

"I don't know. She's hurt. Can you help?"

Selah's mind recognized the following noise as one of Church's famous growls. "Let me get my tools."

"Please, allow me to help. Two physicians are better than one."

"Very well."

Selah lost track who was talking. All male, that was as all she could tell. But they're words mixed together and she had trouble deciphering sentences. But she registered her back being pressed against a hard surface and her head buried in something soft.

"Where did you find her?"

"Out in the frontier. Near Lexington."

"Dear God."

"Isn't that where Adams and Hancock are?"

"Revere was supposed to meet them. I hope they're alright."

"We'll worry about it later. Let's get just get this operation over with, if she isn't dead already."

Selah didn't know happened next. She tried to slip back into oblivion, but stabs of pain prevented her from doing so. Some part of her registered she was crying out. She tried to fight back, make it go away, only for her limbs to be held in place by an unknown force. Eventually agony filled her senses, replacing the entire world before it blackened out altogether.

Selah first registered a soft cushion surrounding her. She tried to open her eyes, only to be greeted with a blinding light. She hissed and closed her eyes. Instead, the woman tried to move, but her muscles wouldn't obey. It felt like stone was weighing down her limbs and her thoughts were drifting aimlessly in her mind. Then she heard voices, but they were muffled, like they were coming from another room.

"There's a large column heading towards the town," a voice with a light accent spoke. "They expect to meet the militias by morning."

"Then I'm expected in Lexington," another male announced.

"It's best you stay here. You'll just get caught in the crossfire."

"And what of the other boys? No, I have to help them."

"Sir—"

"Don't bother," Church's growl rebuked. "Joseph Warren is as stubborn as they come," Church interrupted. A pause. "Just be careful, will you? I don't want two patients on my table."

"I believe that's just risk we must bear for our freedom," the stranger, apparently Warren, replied, "as Sons of Liberty."

Church snorted. "Sometimes I wonder why I joined you lot."

Selah heard something that sounded like a chuckle and then a few words she couldn't catch. A farewell, most likely. A quiet slam of a door being shut came, signaling Warren had left. She listened as she heard Church and the other guest continued to talk. She heard a tired and frustrated groan, but it wasn't Church's.

"Damned rebels," the voice—which she recognized from before—spat. "We keep continuing to crack down on them, and they just cause even more trouble."

"That's one thing the Order forgets to mention in its teachings," Church replied. "Sometimes you just can't control everybody."

"I didn't realize there was so much resistance. Did you warn my father?"

"Yes. I already sent a letter to Thomas Gage."

Selah could practically see the frown on the stranger's face. "That's not my father."

"No, but that's your father's superior, so it is done either way. Besides, we wouldn't have this mess if that stupid girl had done her job."

"We still don't know what happened."

"Oh, so you _didn't_ find her bleeding onto the road like a stuck pig? I _told_ Haytham not to waste our time with her." Selah heard a sound that seemed like wood scratching against each other. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to check on Selah." A series of thuds came, nearing.

"Yes, it would be a true pity if she died in her sleep," Church snorted.

Selah heard a click and a long squeak from metal and the footsteps reverberated across the room. A heavy sigh filled the air as the door closed.

"How does Father work with such a man?" the accented voice sighed.

"I ask myself that every day," Selah muttered, barely parting her lips as she kept her eyes closed.

"Ah, you're awake, good."

The young Templar opened her eyes, only to wince again as bright morning sunlight poured into the room. When the last thing she saw was complete darkness, it burned her eyes. But she didn't have to see to _finally_ recognize the person that had entered her room, the same one that brought her from the frontier. Still, the woman felt a pang of disappointment and depression that it wasn't the voice she wished to hear.

"It doesn't feel like it," Selah retorted. "Good to see you again, William."

She turned her head to see William Pitcairn, the son of the esteemed major, walking across the room. He grabbed a wooden chair and brought it over next to her bed.

"I didn't expect you to be happy to see me," he said as he sat down.

"Don't worry, I'm not," Selah agreed. "But you saved my life, so the least I can do is thank you."

Damn, he looked so much like his brother. His hair was a dark brown, cut short to his scalp. Instead of hazel, his eyes were the same color of his hair. Selah noticed he wore a marine uniform, but if his father even caught him in his current state, the son would be hanged. The white trousers were stained with mud, looking more brown that pale. His dirty red coat was undone—with the insignia of his lieutenant rank crooked—with his undershirt untucked. At the age of twenty-one, he was seven years younger than her, but his military training made him appear much older. The young man gave a smirk at her retort.

"So you remember," he observed.

"Not really," Selah confessed. "But I know sure as hell Church didn't bring me here."

With a grunt, the woman shifted, which took more effort than it should. She braced her elbows behind and pushed, only for pain to ripple across her abdomen. The Templar hissed and she felt William's hand on her shoulder.

"Don't get up," he ordered gently. "You need to conserve your strength."

Selah couldn't argue even if she wanted to, as a wave of weakness coursed through her. Without her permission, she head fell back on the pillow. Her thoughts swam as her mind spun.

"I'm so dizzy…" she moaned. Even though, she didn't fail to register William pulling the sheets to her chin. The two didn't see eye-to-eye on most things, and most likely never will, but that didn't stop him from being the gentleman John raised him to be.

"You lost a lot of blood last night," the soldier explained. "Dr. Church and Dr. Warren were able to stop it and close the wound, but the damage was already done. ...We thought you wouldn't make it."

Selah closed her eyes and shivered. Had she really come so close? She tried to remember everything that happened, but it was all a blur. Only the Assassin came clearly, the demon imbedding his blade into her. The woman gritted her teeth. If only she had been more _careful_. She was too focused on trying to kill him, she got sloppy. Even worse, she could've avoided the fight to begin with.

She got to the Sons long before the Assassin did. All she had to do was send them to Gage, and if they struggled, kill them. Those were her orders. But no, the idea of meeting the Assassin was all too tempting for the vengeful Templar. Now she paid the price.

Not only did she put her life in stake, Selah failed to complete her mission. Adams and Hancock were still at large, along with the rest of them. Not only that, they led an army of their own, waiting for the military to walk into their trap. Selah wondered if Revere's capture meant anything, especially when it cost her precious time. Thank God William had come. If not…

Selah shivered again. The lieutenant noticed.

"Try to get some sleep, Selah," he suggested. The woman wanted to refuse, but once again her body denied her. A wave exhaustion washed over her and her eyes fluttered. But she kept them open.

"What about Major Pitcairn?" she asked. "The rebels at Concord?"

She looked at William expectantly, but the boy shook his head.

"I don't know," he murmured. "Only time will tell. Now, please…"

Selah sighed. She could bear the pain. But she couldn't bear was _not knowing._ It could be days before they learned the outcome of Lexington and Concord. And by then, it could be too late. Even though, even Selah could admit even if she _did_ know, there was nothing she could do. She couldn't even lift her head, never mind fight. Admitting defeat, the exhausted woman closed her eyes and embraced the darkness that welcomed her, but not without a final thought of the Assassin, Connor...

 **For those questioning how the heck Selah lasted so long after being stabbed, here's why. In life-threatening situations, the mind is able to block out pain, allowing the person to continue to relatively function. I based Selah's experience on that, until blood loss eventually caught up to her. Instead, you guys should be questioning who this William character is, and why Selah isn't particularly fond of him.**

 **History Trivia: Yep, for those who didn't pay attention to the game, Benjamin Church was a Son of Liberty. However, he was not loyal to the cause, as he was discovered to be sending letters to Thomas Gage since the beginning of the Revolution. Speaking of Sons, John Prescott was the only one to complete the Midnight Ride. Revere was captured by a British patrol, but Dawes and Prescott were able to escape. Dawes was able to fool his pursuers by calling for his friends, which convinced the soldiers there was an ambush and backed off. He had to walk the rest of the way while Prescott fled into the woods, using back roads to make it Concord, delivering the warning.**


	23. Part III: Lexington and Concord

Bright morning sunlight filtered through the trees, illuminating the thin mist that lingered through the air. The song of birds resonated… along with the grumblings of men and the clanking of artillery.

Connor observed as militiamen readied their weapons as they loitered in front of Buckman Tavern. They wore tattered clothing and leather, like most frontiersmen, and the native observed there were more rifles than muskets. He also noticed majority of them were young, most no older than him. It made the Assassin's gut wrench. This was the force that was meant to stall the army?

That said nothing of their "commander." John Parker was less than pleased to be awakened in the middle of the night. Adams and Hancock had to flee, leaving Connor to deal with the man, which was no easy task. The old man didn't even believe the army was coming, despite the Assassin's insisting. Instead, he sent his own scout to confirm it was true, leaving everyone waiting, to do _nothing_ , as a force to destroy them closed in. Now it was Connor's turn to be less than pleased.

The boy turned away from the militia to near John Parker himself, who was "talking" with his men. The man would go into a coughing fit every time he tried to speak.

" _Illness of the lungs,"_ Adams had explained.

"Parker, any word from your scout?" Connor asked.

"Ngh," the commander coughed before clearing his throat. "You will _know_ when my scout gets here. And pray that you didn't drag us all out here for nothing."

The Assassin tried not to make a face, trying to understand the man and displeased at what he heard. Parker's voice was like a rock trying to speak. His grating voice was raspy, his words coming out as choked growls. Connor was reminded of his first time speaking English, but instead of trying to translate the language, he found himself trying to translate _Parker_. The teenager _knew_ continuing the argument would be pointless, but he could not hold his tongue.

"Then maybe you would like to ask the dozens of other men that have personally seen the army and decided to prepare," Connor lashed out.

"Then they're fools," Parker retorted. "Mere boys stand no chance against a trained legion. It only takes a few battles to notice that."

"Then why are we here?"

Parker opened his mouth to reply, but the thunder of hooves cut him off. The two turned to see a young man speeding towards them on a galloping horse. His eyes were wide and sweat beaded his face, despite the fact his skin was deathly pale. The scout was able to pull the horse into a stop just before barreling into them, turning the horse to speak to them properly.

"It's true," he gasped. "The redcoats are coming. And they're close."

"How close?" Parker rasped.

It was then another thunder filled the air, as steady and rhythmic as hooves, but it was much more sinister. Connor's gut knotted as he was reminded of his village, when his people danced to the flames at night, or when… The native realized what the strange sound was. War drums.

Parker was quick to react.

"Get ready!" he roared, which seemed impossible to Connor with Parker's terrible voice.

Despite his impairment, the militiamen needed no second instruction. In unison, the frontiersmen jumped to attention, armed with their weapons. In a blink of an eye, they lined up on either side the road, but were careful not to blockade it. Connor realized why.

"You're not going to stop them?" he asked Parker accusingly.

"I'm not wasting my men here," the colonist retorted.

Ignoring the Assassin's glare, he turned to his militia. The boys stood in place, not readying their weapons with pale faces. Their leader paced in front of them, holding his rifle.

"Stand your ground, men!" Parker yelled, which sounded pitifully strained. "Don't fire unless fired upon! But if they mean to have a war, let it begin here!"

Connor saw solemn expressions fall across the lines and a couple looked confused, as if they didn't understand the man. But instead of giving it more attention, the native turned around to face the road coming from the frontier.

It was only another minute when a flash of red appeared. The Mohawk tensed as a lone soldier appeared, pounding at the drum resting on his belly with thin sticks. He walked a few paces before several more redcoats appeared. Behind them, several more, until a whole squadron came. Followed by another. And another. And another. And another.

Connor's heart felt like lead as more and more red came from the forest, replacing the lush green colors. He wanted to tremble at the sea of British soldiers that marched before him. While the young boys stood with fear and panic, fidgeting in place, the soldiers' faces were like stone and their movements were stiff.

Connor watched with horror as the massive column came closer and closer, until suddenly all the soldiers stopped as if they came up to a wall. They became completely unmoving until there was a bark. Suddenly the regulars in the front lowered their weapons, bayonets glinting in the morning sunlight. The front line of militiamen swallowed before hesitantly doing the same.

The Assassin, not armed with an effective weapon, watched from behind the volunteers as he noticed a figure mounted on a steed came from the rear. His blood immediately boiled.

"Pitcairn," he hissed with venom.

The major went up to the front of the army, holding himself tall and strong as he looked down upon the group of resistance. Connor swore there was a look of disdain in the major's eyes, like he came across an obstacle in the road that he did not have time to deal with.

"Disperse, you damned rebels!" he called, his voice full of authority. "Lay down your arms and disperse!"

The militia ignored his order, instead planting themselves in their spots. They held their weapons tightly, fingers on the triggers, braced to fire in a moment's notice. Only a hundred yards away, the regulars did the same.

For a long time, nothing moved. Not even the air that had once been filled with song stirred. Then, a horrible sound that would forever be in Connor's memory struck, so loud he swore the whole world could hear it.

A gunshot.

It filled the entire air, echoing through the town as Connor tried to pinpoint the source. It was too late. Almost immediately, several more shots sounded, coming from _both_ sides. A man next to the young Assassin fell.

" _No_!" Parker screamed.

From the other side of the field, the native thought he saw Major Pitcairn yelling something before cantering away on his horse, looking furious. More soldiers took his place, taking aim on the small group of rebels. More shots fired. More men fell.

Connor acted quickly. He lunged over to where Parker was standing in full view, dragging him behind a low stone wall. Already fragments flew as muskets struck the barrier. In the corners of the Assassin's vision, he saw the others doing to same. At the same time, more men dropped their weapons, whirled around on their heels, and fled. Parker noticed as well.

"What the deuce are you doing?!" he roared, the words barely decipherable. Even though, Connor could hear his rage very clearly. "Hold your positions! Cravens! Traitors!"

Instead of listening to his words, the boys ignored their commander as they disappeared, more following their example. The teenager gritted his teeth.

"They are not coming back," he hissed. "You will have to make do with those that remain."

Parker snapped his neck towards him with a seething glare, shoving off the boy's hold.

"Don't you lecture me how to—" he began to retort, but suddenly cut himself off.

He looked up and Connor noticed what had caught his attention. The gunshots had gone silent. The redcoats were reloading.

"Return fire! Return fire!" Parker demanded, but order sounded like a dying dog's bark.

Only a handful obeyed. Only a couple redcoats fell. There was a flash from the line of marksmen and the rebels ducked back under their cover as volleys of muskets rained down on them. Connor gritted his teeth. Now he understood Parker's concerns.

"We are hopelessly outnumbered," the boy seethed. "We are not going to last. We have to warn the others at Concord."

He watched as Parker grinded his teeth. The teenager braced for the dying man to give a crude comment and another argument, but the old veteran let out a long sigh.

"There should be a man known as James Barrett leading our men in Concord," he explained to Connor. "Tell him what has happened here and that I sent you. I can only hope you have a better chance there."

The Assassin lingered, unsure what to do. He knew they had to leave, but Parker remained in his spot. The righteous warrior couldn't bring himself to leave the old man, no matter how harsh he had been. Apparently Parker had no interest in sentiment.

"Go on now!" he snapped.

Connor swallowed and nodded. He readjusted on his haunches, tensing his muscles. He waited until near silence captured the air. Keeping his head down, the Assassin ran.

* * *

Connor was kicking the sides of the gelding, spurring the animal faster, but it was almost hopeless as chaos surrounded him.

Militiamen and citizens alike ran for their lives as shots rang through the air, coming from all over the town. The Assassin's gut knotted as he realized Parker had failed, and now the redcoats were marching through the streets. Cutting down anyone that stood in their way.

Either smoke from all the artillery or the morning mist still lingered, because a haze covered Connor's vision. More than once he narrowly missed running a person over. Some frontiersmen sprinted beside the boy, headed towards Concord as well. Others simply gave up, collapsing onto their knees and weeping towards the sky. A handful of locals emerged from their homes and stood appalled, trying to figure out was going on. The native couldn't help but be reminded of the day his village was burned, when there was nothing but confusion and fear.

"Hurry! We must to get to Concord!"

"Oh, God, I don't want to end like this!"

"My baby! Where is my baby?!"

"Run! They're taking prisoners!"

Connor forced his way through the chaos, charging down a street that would lead him to Concord. Only he never got there.

Just as he was able to break free of the restricting walls of Lexington, a crimson wall materialized across the road. A British column, split from the army. The Assassin pulled the reins so hard the horse reared in protest. Others running beside him skidded to a halt, letting out sobs of dismay. Connor watched in horror and awe as a few brave souls went on, trying to break the blockade. Horses and men screamed as the line fired, downing all in their way.

Connor cursed and whirled his steed around, almost trampling a militiaman standing next to him. He leaped over a stone wall, cantered through someone's front yard ( destroying an arrangement of crops), and soared over a fence, crashing into the forest. It looked like he would be taking the long road around. In the corner of his eye, the Assassin saw a few others thinking the same thing, but he noticed they were not heading the same direction as him.

He didn't give it a second glance, instead steering his horse towards the direction of Concord. Or, at least he hoped it was in the right direction. However, it wasn't long before a scream cut him off.

"HHEELLP!"

Connor pulled the reins again, bringing his horse to a stop. He snapped his head back and forth, trying to pinpoint the source. Only when he did, the young boy widened his eyes.

"Revere?!" he yelped.

Sure enough, the Son was sprinting through the woods towards him, but something was wrong. Revere was running ungracefully as he kept tripping over roots and foliage. Connor couldn't blame him for poor balance, considering his hands were tied and he kept looking over his shoulder in panic.

"Connor, help me!" Revere wailed.

The Assassin blinked, but it only took another moment for him to realize what was going on. There was a shout in the distance and the native glanced up to see a squadron of soldiers charging towards them, looking furious.

Revere also noticed his pursuers and the fact they were gaining on him, provoking him to let out an unmanly scream. Connor snapped out of his gaze and spurred the horse forward. He charged past the fleeing silversmith, right into a redcoat and this time he actually did trample them. The soldier fell with a yell. At the same time, the Assassin jumped off the saddle, landing on another regular while burying his hidden blade in his neck.

The warrior was so invested in his kill, he didn't see the hatchet thrown at him. By either the Spirits' intervention or pure luck, only the butt of the weapon hit the side of his head, but it was still enough to knock him down with a cry.

"Connor!" Revere yelped.

The teenager was desperately trying to get up, clutching his head. The man ran over and attempted to help, but with his hands bound, he was next to useless. Nonetheless, he awkwardly grabbed Connor's upper arm with his hands, which the boy quickly shoved off. The Assassin jumped to his feet, only to realize with dread that it was too late.

He looked around as the squadron of redcoats encircled them, bayonets less than a foot from the rebels. Oh, this wasn't good. Suddenly a man in a regal crimson coat, a major, sauntered up. His shoulders were squared and his hands were clasped behind his back as a smug look covered his face.

"Well, well, and where do you think you were going, Mr. Revere?" the man snickered. The Son only whimpered and ducked behind Connor's large frame. While the Assassin glared, the commander only laughed. "So where is this 'large militia' you were babbling about? I'm rather disappointed." The man's expression turned dark. "Nonetheless, I'm sure Major Pitcairn will enjoy meeting you two miscreants."

"That is not happening," Connor retorted defiantly.

The major squinted and took a bold step towards his prisoner until they were nose-to-nose.

"Oh? And what makes you say that?" he taunted.

The Assassin braced to unsheathe his blade to answer the arrogant bastard, but he didn't have the chance. Suddenly a single gunshot cut through the air. While Connor didn't even move, the entire patrol of regulars violently flinched.

"Bloody 'ell was that?" a soldier cried.

The teenager fought back a smirk. Obviously these soldiers were left out of the loop. Gage made sure his expedition was kept secret, even from his own men. That included this poor patrol. They were not informed of the army's movements, nor that there were armed militias all across the county. They had no idea they were walking up to a battlefield. His proof was when the major rounded on Revere.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. The rebel prisoner didn't miss a beat.

"Oh, that would be to alarm the country," he said nonchalantly, smiling.

"What are you babbling on about?"

"Well, you see, if any soldier would be spotted near Lexington, a man must shoot into the air to call upon the militia. The militia must immediately respond, and send word that the army is invading all of America."

Connor made a confused face, not understanding, and the major wore the same look. Or more like he wore a screwed, ridiculous expression as he tried to decipher Revere's words. Before the captor could question further, a dull sound came from the distance. The Assassin immediately recognized it as bell tolling. Most likely to warn the locals of the danger, but in his opinion it was too late. At the sound, Revere lit up.

"The bell's a'ringing!" he cried with glee. "The town's alarmed, and you're all dead men!"

Instead of confusion, the regulars exchanged glances of fear. The major scowled.

"He's lying!" he spat. "They would've been here already!"

"Well, you can't blame them. They _are_ bringing the whole town out here. It takes some time to get everyone together."

Connor caught on. "While you have no reinforcements"

There were a couple mutters. Now the major was looking nervous, but he tried to keep a brave facade.

"Th-that's ridiculous!" he sputtered.

"Just as ridiculous as you believing you can get away with this," Connor snarled.

The boy wasn't sure just how much the major believed, but the redcoat had lost his confident look. But before the man could question it further, another gunshot sounded, closer. This time several of the soldiers jumped. While they're faces turned pale, Revere smiled mischievously (more like malicious, from Connor's perspective).

"I'd say you have about… ten seconds before my friends come to show you your end," he said confidently. "I would run if I were you."

A couple of the redcoats actually obeyed. They dropped their weapons and dashed away, even barging into their compatriots. Those remained watched in horror and the major roared in fury, but Revere only encouraged them.

"Fly, you fools, fly!" he yelled, which provoked the rest of the patrol to do just that, one by one. One man actually jumped on the horse and galloped away (much to Connor's displeasure). The major sputtered as his helplessly watched his men flee, but another gunshot sent him on his way. "And never come back!"

The silversmith burst out laughing as the redcoats disappeared back in the woods, some of them tripping as he had. However, as the last one slipped away, Revere cut his outburst short. He tilted his head towards Connor and asked through gritted teeth and oddly-shaped lips, "Should we be leaving?"

"Quickly," the Assassin suggested.

In unison, both sprinted off as fast as their legs would allow.

* * *

The first thing Connor noticed when they reached Concord: the redcoats hadn't gotten there yet. It allowed the boy to give a sigh of relief as he and Revere slowed. The Son, much older and unathletic, was in horrible shape. He panted like a fish out of water, doubled over as he clutched his side. For a moment the man looked like he was about to fall, but he grabbed Connor's arm before he could. This time the Mohawk didn't slap him off.

"Do you need to rest?" the boy asked.

"No," Revere gasped, breathless. "Need… to get... to… Barrett."

The Assassin nodded and led the way. The town was similar to Lexington: large buildings separated by unpaved roads. The only difference was that he noticed that Concord seemed more organized. While Lexington's buildings were haphazardly placed, Concord's structures were divided in rows. Instead of barren streets of Lexington, frontiersmen filled the town, either chatting or standing sentry. Connor even spotted some individuals in coats and trousers instead of the leather of a hunter, telling it was not only the militia guarding the town. Nonetheless, he was relieved that Concord had more time to prepare than its predecessor.

The pair of rebels journeyed through the settlement, coming to a wide, wooden bridge. It arched over a calm, mirror-like river, stretching to the other bank of a hill. There, Connor saw dozens and dozens of militiamen, concentrating in a single area. Set aside from the miniature army was a group of men. Among them, the boy recognized Prescott and Dawes, as well as a man in a red coat with short, silver hair.

"What I'm saying, Barrett, is—" Prescott said before he suddenly noticed the incoming pair. "Connor! Paul! Thank God!"

Dawes also lit up while the stranger, Barrett, slowly turned towards them, cocking an eyebrow.

"Ah, late to the party, I see," the man drawled. His voice was slow and clear, devoid of an accent like most colonists. Connor ignored his comment.

"Blood has been spilled in Lexington," the teenager warned, "and there is more to come. The regulars are on the march."

Barrett didn't even blink at the solemn message. His face was impassive as he took a step towards Connor.

"You don't say?" the colonel retorted. "Why do you think I've men up here?"

Connor looked around as he noticed the militia surrounding them, braced to spring into action in a moment's notice. Unable to come up with a proper response, the boy shrugged. Barrett was not impressed.

"Go home," the man ordered, his voice condescending, "'fore you get yourself killed. I've enough to worry about without some green boy looking to play at hero."

Connor bristled at the accusation. Before the man could turn around, he spoke up, "John Parker sent me."

Barrett merely glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, and where is his letter?"

Letter? Parker didn't say anything about that… Connor tried to find a reasonable response, but another voice did that for him.

"I can vouch for him."

The group turned at the new tone. Connor widened his eyes at Joseph Warren, mounted on a horse.

"Joseph! What are you doing here?!" Revere exclaimed.

"Well, I can't let you have all the fun, now can I?" the man smirked as he climbed off his steed. He approached the group, facing Barrett. "I'm the one that sent him here. Along with Revere and Dawes. Your men wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him."

Connor was pleased to see the dumbfounded look on Barrett, especially when the other Sons of Liberty nodded and muttered their agreement. However, the colonel quickly replaced it with his emotionless mask.

"Well, it seems you're not completely useless," the man huffed. "So I suppose there's a thing or two you might be able to help with. When the fighting starts, we'll need to hold those positions there." The man stepped away from the group and raised a hand, gesturing along the bank. "They're critical to the defense of Concord."

Barrett paused as he looked around the small army surrounding him. As Connor joined him, he noticed the militiamen were about the same age as the ones in Lexington—barely in their manhood. The teenager glanced over to Barrett to see his inscrutable mask had broken to what looked like pity.

"Good boys," he sighed, "not used to soldiering. They need someone with experience to direct 'em. Is that something you think you can do?"

The colonel fixed Connor with a glare, demanding an answer. The Mohawk glanced at the Sons surrounding him. They had no doubt in their eyes. They believed he was the reason that they were all here today. Connor knew that was not true, that he merely there for his own, selfish reasons. Still, he was not blind that these great men were depending on him. The Assassin turned to Barrett and merely nodded.

"You best be telling the truth," Barrett said.

"You have my word," Connor promised. The colonel stared at him for a moment more, sizing him up, before finally nodding in acceptance.

"Then I suppose all that's left to do is wait…"

* * *

They did not have to wait long before the army arrived. Connor tensed as he saw the same sea of red from Lexington pour into the center of Concord. Almost immediately, gunshots rang out and smoke rose into the sky. Even from here, the Assassin swore he could hear the screams of startled civilians that failed to evacuate. He was tempted to charge down and help, but he summoned all his self-control to stay where he was. That and the fact that Dawes was holding the reins of his horse.

Connor watched as suddenly the massive army broke apart. The sea split into rivers of crimson, the columns of soldiers marching off into different directions. No doubt it was to cover more ground in order to locate the weapon caches. The other Sons had left to do just that.

Prescott assured majority of the supplies had already been removed, but there was still some stored in Barrett's farm. So he and Revere would handle their removal while Warren left to gather his own men. In the meantime, Barrett and the Assassin would lead the assault on the army's escape route. If the British believed they were cut off, no doubt they would be thrown in confusion until they realized they would have to take the long route home, through hostile territory. It would be Warren's responsibility to "escort" them back to Boston.

While the marines decided to thin their numbers by separating, the rebel numbers had swelled. In the short amount of time that Connor had joined, their numbers had multiplied by threefold. Only half of the forces were made of Minutemen, the local militia, while others were volunteers from the surrounding towns, not just Concord. Instead of a few dozens, the rebel army was made of _hundreds_.

Connor was stirred from his observations when a cry gave out. He glanced up and his heart quickened. Sure enough, a column of redcoats was marching towards them, but he noticed it was significantly smaller than the others. Most likely because it was made of sentries, not expecting confrontation. Oh, were they in for a surprise.

Barrett's shout rang out. "Forward companies, advance!"

At his call, the rebel army, hidden behind the hill, stirred to life. With excited shouts and battle cries, the militiamen surged forward, exposing themselves to the incoming army. This time the tables had turned.

Connor saw horror fall on the regulars' faces as they saw a massive wave of colonists swarm towards them. A captain leading in front (unfortunately not Pitcairn) quickly whirled his horse around, back towards the bridge they just crossed.

"Hold the bridge! Hold the bridge!" he roared. Barrett replied with his own order.

"Push them back!"

The rebel army did just that. Terrified of the coming onslaught, the British column shuffled back across the bridge, but it was slow and awkward as soldiers bumped into each other or simply stood frozen. When the forward company came too close, the front line of regulars panicked. They opened fired upon the colonists, downing some, only to be replaced by their vengeful comrades.

The rebel army slowly pushed against the invaders, driving them further and further down the bridge. Eventually the British became frightened, even trying to tear up the wooden planks, but when the soldiers realized they did not have enough strength and time, they gave up and continued backwards.

When he realized they were gaining ground, Barrett ordered barricades to be formed. Connor was amazed at the efficiency of the frontiersmen as they created makeshift barriers made of their own supplies or boulders across the bank. However, on the other side, the teenager noticed the army was doing the same. But instead of covering wide area, firing lines were short and narrow, sitting like ducks.

They were quick to fall to the militia's long-ranged rifles, when their muskets could barely reach across the river. Connor cantered back and forth along the bank on his steed, relaying orders from Barrett and shouting encouragements. Despite him being a stranger, the young men seemed to rally at his words and became alert in his presence.

The Assassin lost how long this process went on, only registering the claps of thunder that continuously echoed, the shouts of men, and debris of gunpowder smoke. Adrenaline made it all go by in a rush and numbed his senses. He didn't feel the musket ball hitting his thigh until he happened to glance down at it. His senses didn't clear until he saw a familiar figure ride up towards the regular's front.

If Pitcairn appeared furious before, there was nothing to describe his violent look now.

"Fall back! Fall back!" he roared over the noise, so loud even Connor could hear it clearly.

The losing soldiers did not have to be told twice. They whirled around, some even throwing down their weapons. Connor blinked, not believing what he saw, but only when he did, the redcoats had disappeared. Shouts of victory erupted from the rebel army. Connor smiled.

They had won.

* * *

 **And that's the beginning of the Revolutionary War! Like I did with the Massacre, I mixed the events of history and Ubisoft's version (which was actually fairly accurate). Sorry if I didn't go into detail, especially for the Battle of Old North Bridge, but I assume most of you played the game and had a good visual of what was going on. Unfortunately I couldn't expand on Sons' roles in the battle, but I plan to go back to them next chapter. As well as check on Selah, so stay tuned!**


	24. Part III: The Cost of War

"Connor!"

The young Assassin looked up from staring at the ground as he walked in the doorway. He was greeted with Sam Adams, the man jumping from his seat to near him. Also occupying the room were the rest of the Sons of Liberty—Hancock, Prescott, Dawes, Revere, and even Warren. All of them looked worn and disheveled from the day's events, and Connor doubted he looked much better.

"Thank God you're alright," the rebel leader sighed.

"The same could not be said for many," Connor retorted in a bitter tone. The older man frowned and his eyes darkened.

"I know. But many more are alive today because of you. You should be proud."

The teenager gritted his teeth. How could he be _proud_? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them. The dozens of bloody, broken bodies of both redcoats and militiamen. Instead of pride, Connor felt guilt. They died _because_ of him. They died by Pitcairn's orders, a man he should've killed over a year ago. And now it were innocent lives that paid the price for his mistake. Adams, living up to his reputation of a man of the people, sensed Connor's distress, despite his stone face.

"Come, sit down," the man offered.

He gently placed a hand on the boy's shoulder—but was careful to keep it tentative—as he guided his guest to the table in the center of the living room. As Connor shuffled across the room, he happened to glance outside, only to see the purple light of dusk. He blinked. It was already that late? The day had gone by in a blur. He only remembered death and blood and panic. The native sat down as Adams took a seat across from him.

"Well, I for one am certainly grateful," Hancock spoke up. "We'll all be rotting in a godforsaken prison right now if it weren't for you. If we weren't gutted like pigs by that she-demon."

There were mutters of agreement and Connor blinked as he deciphered what they were talking about. His brain eventually translated the "she-demon" as Selah. He vaguely remembered the Templar attack on their hideout. It already seemed so long ago. Suddenly Prescott snorted.

"Unfortunately we had our own run-in with her," he growled. "She tried to stop us from going to Concord. A whole patrol with her, too!"

"Ugh," Revere winced at the memory. "I thought my days of a free man were over. You have my gratitude, Connor, by being at the right place at the right time."

Connor frowned. The teenager had simply stood there, useless, as the man saved _both_ their lives. That hardly made the Assassin a savior.

"No, I did nothing," the young native insisted. "Even if I had not been there, I am sure you would have been fine."

"Modest to the end," Adams quipped, a smile tugging his lips.

"I just wonder who she was," Dawes spoke up.

"Had to be someone of the army," Warren guessed. His usually friendly tone was filled with exhaustion and his eyes were barely open. Still, he made sure to participate in the conversation. "It could explain why she could command such men and was so eager for our heads."

"A woman cannot join the military!" Hancock protested. "Perhaps a mercenary of some sort. Still, such a vulgar way of life for a lady."

Connor made no comment. He knew very well why Selah had come for them and why she was allowed such authority. After years in the Templar Order, no doubt she had climbed the ranks, despite the fact she was a former Assassin. In fact, the native wouldn't be surprised if she was in his father's inner circle. The Inner Sanctum, Achilles had called it. Revere's snort interrupted his thoughts.

"She was long gone when I woke up," he reported. "Hopefully that's the last we'll see of her. Now that we have enough to worry about."

Immediately a solemn air fell over the group. Warren was the first to break the silence.

"My men pursued them all the way to Boston, but they walled themselves up in Charleston. I had the militia block the roads to the city. The army's not getting any new supplies any time soon."

Connor blinked. "Why do such a thing?"

"So we can get the advantage, of course," Warren answered, as if it were obvious.

"But… I thought we were trying to avoid a war."

"That went out the window when Pitcairn shot our men," Hancock said bitterly.

"Besides, if we don't do anything, the army's just going to regroup, resupply, and reattack us the moment they get the chance," Prescott explained. "Best prevent them from doing that in the first place."

Connor frowned, not convinced. He thought he was liberating the Sons of Liberty from arrest—and execution—not starting a war. However, the others took the news with solemn acceptance. Dawes sighed.

"I suppose it was inevitable," he commented. "Goddamn mystery it hasn't happened already."

"We'll have to prepare," Hancock said. Warren nodded in agreement.

"We'll need more boys to help our cause," the doctor said. "I can recruit some and organize them into the militias."

"It doesn't matter how many militias we have if we don't have anyone to represent our case," Adams pointed out. "We'll need to form a congress. Honest delegates from each colony. I'm afraid Parliament won't listen if it's just ourselves."

"I'll speak with Ben Franklin about that," Revere volunteered. "He's been proposing that the Colonies need to be bound together. And his words have no more merit than they do now."

"A sound idea, Paul," Prescott approved. "What of Hancock and you, Adams?"

Adams sighed. "We'll stay here, for now. What of you?"

"I have places I can hide out in. So does Dawes."

"Very good." The rebel leader paused and in that moment, the man seemed to aged several years. Connor glanced over to see he looked exhausted and dark circles were under his eyes, his skin an unhealthy color. "Then it's best we go our ways. There is work to be done and very little time to do it. I bid the best of fortune for all of you."

There were murmurs and scrapes of chairs as the men rose. Only Adams and Connor remained in their seats. One-by-one, the Sons shuffled out of the house, except one figure lingered. Warren paused by Connor's side, placing a hand on his shoulder. The native was too tired to slap it away.

"I'd like to thank you again," the man said in a low tone. "You could have chosen to stay out of our business—refuse my offer—but you helped us anyway. I know it wasn't easy for you. And despite what you think, a lot of men are in your debt, including myself. Even if history doesn't remember you, I will."

Connor couldn't think of a proper reply, caught off guard. It was too solemn to be a compliment, but Warren said it too easily—like he was talking to a friend. The man stepped away, nodded a farewell, and left along with the others. Now only Connor and Adams remained.

The rebel leader sighed and leaned back in his chair, running his hands through his hair. His guest noticed several silver streaks through the dark chocolate hair.

"What a mess," Adams groaned.

"What happens now?" Connor asked.

"There's a lot of people that disagree with the idea of war. We'll have to persuade them to our side. We must contact the broadsheets at once—to ensure it's clear to everyone that it was the Loyalists who fired first."

The teenager squinted in confusion, pointing out, "But no one knows who took the first shot…"

"Which is exactly why we must spread the news quickly. We'll determine public opinion."

"That seems… dishonest."

"Perhaps," Adams shrugged. "So what? People must believe we acted in self-defense. Else, we've committed treason."

"But you have."

"Better to bow and scrape before a tyrant, then? Is that what you suggest?" Adams snapped, suddenly taking a challenging tone. The Assassin was quick to defend himself.

"No, of course not," he said. "No one should be denied freedom. And yet… to change the truth… it seems a dangerous road to travel."

"Understand, Connor, this is a war fought not just on the battlefield," Adams lectured, raising a finger like Achilles did during his lessons, "but within the hearts and minds as well. There's nothing wrong with a bit of theater—especially if it saves lives."

Ah, propaganda, then. The type of warfare not fought with swords or guns, but words. It seemed to serve the colonists well, and Adams had seemed to master it. The boy could clearly remember the day he met that man, and he had used his influence to allow the fugitive's escape.

"But in your true opinion, what do you think happened?" Connor asked.

"Honestly? It wouldn't surprise me if the army actually did do it," Adams answered. "Most likely a young private not knowing any better or a veteran looking for a bit of fame before his retirement. Either way, we all have to deal with the consequences." When the man noticed the native's gaze falling to the floor, he said, "As Dawes said, Connor, this was far overdue. The Crown has been enforcing its tyranny on the Colonies ever since the French and Indian War, and Parliament has ignored us for even longer. We should have been made our own country the moment we settled on these lands. I'm sure that was Puritans' intent when they left the prosecution of England."

"Then why not just speak your case?"

"You don't think we've tried? Connor, I spent years as a congressman trying to persuade our dear 'friends' in London. No, now we finally have their attention and I'll be damned before backing down this time. I don't care if the Templars truly are supporting them."

Connor did a double take. Did he just say…?

"W-wait, what did you—" he tried to demand, but Adams cut him off.

"That's what that woman said, yes?" the rebel leader said. "She's a Knight of the Templar Order. Certainly makes sense. Why she was sent after us for speaking of freedom and why she tried to kill you—an Assassin."

For the first time in his life, Connor was truly speechless. It took him several seconds to fumble for words.

"Y-you _know_?" he gasped.

"You mean Achilles didn't tell you?" Adams replied, sounding truly surprised. "That's why he asked me to help you after the Massacre. I've known Achilles for years."

"So you're an Assassin?"

Adams laughed. "Actually, no. The Brotherhood contacted me, hmm… twenty years ago? It was an embarrassing affair, really. Some of my opponents accused me of being a poor tax collector—which was true, in all fairness—but I had no idea they were just Templars trying to steal my position. Achilles promised to pay off my suit if I loaned him my services. We've been friends ever since."

Connor felt like a fish out of water—unable to breath or speak but to just stare with wide eyes. Achilles never told him any of this. He knew the two must have been close, but not _that_ close.

"Achilles never mentioned you," the teenager confessed, before adding quickly, "Before the Massacre, I mean."

"Well, there was a time we had to cut contact with one another. The Templars were getting too close and the old man didn't want to have me endangered. We never had the need to speak again—until Boston, of course."

Connor shook his head. "Now the Templars are after you. It seems your precaution has gone to waste."

"It seems all of Britain wants me dead now. It makes no difference. I'm still curious, though. Do you know who she is?"

"...Selah. She is a former Assassin."

"Then I'm sure she had her reasons for leaving the Brotherhood."

Connor blinked at the confidence in the man's voice. "What makes you say that?"

"Just take me for example. I was a loyal man to the Empire for as long as I remember—I still am, in a way, I just don't agree with its government. Now, here I am, the most wanted man in the world. I can only imagine she's not much different."

"I… truly do not know," the Assassin sighed, looking down. Why _did_ she leave the Brotherhood? What could have been so terrible? Connor wondered if he would ever receive the answers. Adams shrugged.

"Either way, I would be wary of her, Connor," the man warned. "Because next time you meet, I doubt she'll spare your life."

* * *

Selah was miserable. Two days had passed since she was brought to Dr. Church, and the consequences of her exertions had kicked in. She could not move an inch without pain racking her body, sometimes so harsh she could not stop herself from crying out. In order to lessen it, Church had given her small doses of laudanum, but the potion would only make her feel ill and reward her with a splitting headache, adding to the pain.

William, surprisingly, stayed with her for the first day, even overnight. He rarely left her side, but was careful to keep a respectable distance. However, in the morning on the second day, he left with a panicked look without a word. Leaving Selah all alone with Church. The bitter man was unhappy to say the least.

Now, on her third day under the surgeon's care, still wishing to be anywhere else, Selah lay back with her eyes closed. She was trying to drift to sleep, but a new voice outside her door brought her back to life.

"How is she, doctor?"

A snort from Church. "Alive, by some blasted miracle."

"May I see her?"

"Fine. If you can get her off my hands, it would be better. I have enough clients as it is."

"I'll see what I can do."

Selah heard a pair of heavy footsteps near as the door to her room swung open. She opened her eyes as the person sat in the wooden chair next to her.

"And here I thought you forgot about me," the woman smirked. Shay smiled back at her.

"Nah, I could never forget you, darlin'," he chuckled. His warm gaze was replaced by a solemn one. "Are you doing a'right?"

"As fair as a knife to the stomach can be."

The woman shifted, propping herself on her elbows. Shay placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You should—" he started, but Selah interrupted him.

"No, I need to sit up."

The Master Templar relented as she forced herself in an upright position, ignoring the agony spreading through her limbs. Before she could collapse, Shay propped up a pillow behind her. Selah nodded in gratefulness as she leaned back on the soft support, only to wince when her stitches pulled at her wound. The Irishman noticed and frowned, shaking his head.

"I should have told Haytham _ **,**_ someone with more experience should have done it," the man sighed. "But I promised my attention to Biddle…"

Selah frowned. Nicholas Biddle was a former crew member of Shay's ship, so it was natural for the man to put the young sailor under his wing. It certainly explained the Master Templar's absence, if he was out to sea.

"I'm afraid nothing could have changed the outcome," Selah sighed. "The army would still have marched to Concord and the Sons of Liberty would—" Suddenly the Templar cut herself off as she realized the topic she was discussing. "Wait, what happened?"

Shay's look said all. Selah closed her eyes and shook her head, gripping the sheets. So she really _did_ fail. Now there could very well be dozens dead because of her. Suddenly a gentle squeeze on her shoulder pulled her from her brooding thoughts. Selah glanced up to Shay. The man opened his mouth to say something, but he never got the chance. Without warning, the door burst open.

"You _miserable_ , ungrateful child!" Haytham roared.

Immediately Selah wanted to sink back into the bed. She had seen Haytham's fury plenty of times before, and knew full well to steer clear of it. And having that anger pointed at a target only meant that person's death. So when the Templar saw his blazing stone eyes and seething look, she trembled.

"I gave you _one_ simple task!" the Grandmaster went on as he restlessly paced the room. "Locate the Sons and bring them to the Order."

"Technically that's two tasks," Selah muttered under her breath. Unfortunately Haytham heard her and immediately wheeled around.

"And you will hold that tongue of yours!"

Selah clipped her mouth shut and tried to make herself smaller.

"Master Kenway," Shay interrupted carefully. "Perhaps this can wait for another time."

"Ah, yes, perhaps over a hot cup of tea? Oh, wait, there is no tea!"

Haytham's sarcasm or his fury—Selah had no idea which was more lethal. Shay looked at her helplessly. He may have had good intentions, but he was as defenseless as her. Apparently he decided he should not make things worse.

"Maybe I should leave," he offered, slowly raising his rump from the chair. When Haytham said nothing, the Master Templar retreated to the door, sent Selah a pitiful look, and disappeared. Meanwhile, the Brit went back to pacing.

"I thought after—what, twelve years?—you would have at least enough experience to kill a rebellious simpleton. But no. I should have known after the disaster at John's Town you were not fit for this, if the ropeyard incident didn't say enough."

The accusations stung. She knew Haytham had not been pleased with the events. Even though he claimed he held no blame towards her, she knew it would only build to his stress until it snapped. And unfortunately it came sooner than Selah thought, and she was currently his only target. After all, she failed to kill the Assassin once again. The Templar knew she had to defend herself.

"But I captured Revere!" she argued.

"I heard no such thing from Pitcairn," the Grandmaster retorted.

Selah's heart stopped. No, that was impossible. She personally— Unless… Selah's eyes went wide as she realized the fugitive escaped. How—?!

"What of the other Sons? The Assassin?" she demanded.

"Gone," Haytham huffed, waving his hand. "Along with hundreds of other men."

All the breath Selah had was stolen. "What?"

"The Sons were able to warn their little friends hiding in the frontier. The army got to Concord only to find it overrun with rebels. Shots were fired and now word is Parliament will declare Massachusetts in a state of rebellion."

Suddenly the room became twenty degrees colder and Selah started to shiver. No, that was impossible. If Parliament declared that, then… there would be war. Selah shut her eyes tight.

"No… No, that can't be," she refused. "My actions couldn't possibly—"

"Rather _in_ actions," Haytham corrected. "And fortunately for you that there is still hope. If we stifle this rebellion quickly, we can avoid an unnecessary conflict all together. And maybe _this_ time, we can kill that damned Assassin."

Selah could sense his tone. "H-Haytham, I tried!"

"Well, it wasn't good enough. And why do you think you have the authority to make that decision?" The man paused to wave at her, only to roll his eyes and continue pacing. "You really think you can bring yourself to kill an Assassin? That responsibility should have been given to Shay, not you."

Selah's eyes narrowed. So that was why. Why Shay was with her in John's Town, and why the Grandmaster simply gave her the instruction to capture the Sons, not the Assassin.

"I'm a Templar now, Haytham. I knew I would have to prepare to kill a brother."

"Obviously you didn't. You couldn't in Cuba and you still can't now."

It was Selah's turn to seethe. She remembered clearly of her horrible experience on that godforsaken island. She went there, assuming it was to track down rogue gangsters, only to find a remnant of the Caribbean Brotherhood thriving in the Spanish colony. She had hesitated to participate in killing her former comrades, even stopping Haytham from killing their Mentor. Even though, it was worth nothing in the end. And now he had the _nerve_ to throw it in her face.

"You _know_ that was different!" she protested. "And besides, if you have such lack in faith in me, why did you send me to John's Town? To Lexington?"

"I _thought_ I could trust you," Haytham retorted, turning around to face her, then gestured to her stomach. "And then you have the stupidity to get yourself stabbed! Apparently my teachings went to waste, as well!"

"Perhaps I did not have that great of a teacher."

Haytham's eyes dilated. Suddenly in a blur movement, he charged towards her and the woman feared he would actually slit her throat. She flinched and shut her eyes, only to feel strong hands on her back. Selah felt her face being buried in something hard but soft. The Templar was surprised at the man's embrace, but did not have the energy to pull away.

"You _blasted_ girl," Haytham hissed. "Why did I ever take you as an apprentice?"

It was then Selah realized. It had been three—four days since he heard word of her. And God knows what Church said in his letter, detailing that she arrived to his home on the brink of death and now sat next to useless. Haytham's fury wasn't brought on by her past mistakes. He had been stewing at his desk, wondering the fate of his student, whom he had sent to deal with the most wanted men in America. He was _worried_. And it drove him into madness.

Selah slowly wrapped around her arms around the man's torso, burying her face in his chest.

"I'm safe now, Haytham," she assured softly. In response, the Brit only tightened his hold. Selah made a face of pain, but said nothing.

"They tried to kill you," Haytham growled, fury still filling his tone. "They hurt you. Thank God whoever brought—"

"William," Selah interrupted. It was then the Grandmaster relinquished his hold and looked her in the eye as he sat on the edge of her bed. "It was William Pitcairn. Church didn't tell you?"

Haytham shook his head. "I assumed one of our men or a good samaritan brought you here. Well, I suppose it's not surprising. He was always a soldier just like his father."

"He left yesterday."

"Possibly to meet with Major Pitcairn."

It was then Selah remembered. Pitcairn was part of the attack on Lexington and Concord. It was his duty to see the task of subduing the rebels, while Selah's was to capture their leaders. But, if there was a battle…

"Pitcairn, is he alright?" the woman pressed. Haytham showed a solemn look.

"That depends on your own definition. The major is unharmed, but he lost good men and his reputation."

Selah was confused on the later part. "What do you mean?"

Haytham snorted. "Why do you think Gage was so eager to send Pitcairn? Everyone knows how the major can negotiate his way out of a fight. But now that blood has been spilled…"

The Templar realized with horror. "They're blaming Pitcairn for starting the battle."

"Lies, unfortunately," Haytham spat with a snarl. "Jonathan ordered his men not to fire. No doubt one of those miscreants was responsible."

Selah looked down. Poor Pitcairn. No doubt he was overrun by guilt, as well. The woman forced herself to continue the conversation.

"What happens now?" she asked.

"Well, now we have proof that the Sons of Liberty are manipulating events in their favor," Haytham sighed as he rose from the bed. "We might as well take that to our advantage."

"What are you talking about?"

"I already have men within their ranks. If arresting them won't do anything, then we'll just have to sabotage them from the inside. And hopefully turn their actions to our favor."

Selah's gut twisted as she caught on to the Grandmaster's point. He had no patience with her witch hunt anymore. Naturally she was to argue her case. They were murderers and anarchists. They didn't deserve to run free. Then again, it was not like the woman was in the best position to defend her case.

Furthermore, she didn't want to risk Haytham's wrath again. The man was calmer, but his jerky movements told he was still annoyed. With every step he took, the creak of the floorboards sounded like he was walking on thin ice. However, he paused to turn towards Selah, arms behind his back.

"You will not pursue the Sons of Liberty any longer, is that understood?" the Grandmaster ordered, his accent filled with stern authority. Ah, there was the bastard Selah knew so well.

"Yessir," she muttered, avoiding eye contact.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yes, Grandmaster."

So now was she not only useless, the Templar had to wait as her enemy was now someone else's responsibility. And pray they knew what they were doing. Selah knew Haytham was doing this on purpose. Concerned over her welfare or not, she had failed him one too many times. Forbidding her to continue her mission was punishment. And telling her it was in someone else's hand was just rubbing salt into wounds.

"Luckily for you," Haytham piped up, "that Church believes your wound will heal relatively quickly. As precaution, I'm removing you from field work. However, don't think I'm just going to let you loiter for the next several months."

"So you're going to make me your housemaid?" Selah mumbled, knowing Haytham enjoyed giving absurd punishment to insubordinates. If he didn't decide to execute them, of course.

"No. Rather, you'll be someone else's housemaid. Well, if that what he decides to do with you."

"He?"

Selah stared at the man with confusion while Haytham's expression was inscrutable.

"If I cannot teach you discipline, then perhaps someone else can. Charles Lee will be your new charge."

* * *

 **Poor Selah. I am so mean to my OCs. Bit of a filler chapter, but things will pick back up soon!**


	25. Part III: Continental Congress

"Get moving, will you?" Charles Lee barked, already strutting towards the large building that loomed over them.

"Unless you want to walk home, I have to secure the horses," Selah retorted, wrestling with a restless two-year-old stallion.

"Then do it quickly! I'm late enough as it is."

"Perhaps that is because you insisted playing with your damned dogs."

"Stanislaus needed to be properly groomed."

 _Old women do not obsess over their pets as much as you do,_ Selah thought bitterly. She glanced over to see the little devil, Stanislaus, staring at her with Spado, Lee's prized Pomeranian, sniffing his backside. The two canines were by Lee's heels and the man insisted on bringing them, despite they were to attend the most prominent gathering in years. Whatever. Maybe someone would "accidentally" shoot them.

Finally gaining enough control over Lee's thoroughbred, Selah tied it to the post. With an exasperated sigh, she turned around and walked over to her superior, Charles-Fucking-Lee, who was tapping his foot impatiently and had his arms crossed. Not even properly waiting for her to catch up, he spun around and walked ahead, forcing the woman to hurry to keep pace. Still fuming, she continued their bickering. This was going to be her last chance in the next few hours.

"What kind of name is Stanislaus for a dog?" she demanded.

"Because he's the most annoying of the bunch," Lee answered matter-of-factly. He opened the door and slipped inside, not even offering Selah to enter first or holding the door for her. If anything, the heavy mahogany door was dangerously close to hitting her in the face.

Selah didn't know who she wanted to kill more—Lee, for being the cantankerous bastard that he was, or Haytham, who put her in this mess in the first place. Almost two months had passed since she was given to the Master Templar, and despised every second of it. She wished she could be back in Haytham's manor (minus Haytham himself) and resting in bed, served with Ann's warm cooking. That's how she spent the first two weeks of her recovery, along with the constant use of laudanum, salves, and stitches. Finally, when it was deemed she could walk, she was transferred to _live_ with Lee.

Lee gave her pity by not giving her any work that required hard labor, instead making the lesser Templar his assistant. Selah rather had done the hard labor. She would write his missives for him, only for the man to instruct her to write it again, claiming that her chicken scratch was not acceptable handwriting. The woman knew he was just doing it to annoy her. That was her main duty, when she wasn't organizing his papers or collections or attending to his smelly pack of mutts.

Then when she was able to move around more freely, the Master Templar started to task her with running his errands. Once she was to run from his home in Virginia all the way to Pennsylvania just to deliver a _letter_ , all done spur of the moment. At least she didn't have to endure his company. Now she was to escort him to this stupid meeting and if she made a scene, Lee would report her to the Grandmaster for misconduct.

Selah took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. Ranting would do no good. She observed her surroundings to distract herself. Independence Hall was cool compared to the heat of mid-day. Exquisite portraits filled the pale walls, along with just as decorate rugs lining the wooden floor. Pieces of furniture were pushed to the side, offering places to rest. Instead of occupying any of them, Lee stormed down the lobby and into a long corridor, coming to a pair of doors.

Lee quietly opened the door and ducked through, Selah following him. Before them was a large conference room, filled with tables covered by sage clothes. At each table was a pair of men, dressed in elegant coats. Murmurs of conversation filled the room, along with the heat of bodies. However, when the Templar noticed several glances toward their direction, especially at the pair of mutts (that already started yapping), Selah shifted her gaze towards her feet.

She tried to travel to the corner of the room-unseen and away from her superior-but Lee instead directed her to a chair in the very back of the room, next to _him_. Knowing arguing was pointless, Selah relented and sat, but leaned as far away as Lee as possible.

Around thirty delegates filled the room, coming from every corner of the colonies. So these were the representatives that would make up this rebel government. A bitter taste settled in Selah's mouth. And now Haytham was planning on infiltrating it. Or rather, _Lee_ was.

After a few minutes, the harsh pounding of a gavel filled the room. Immediately, delegates took their seats and the air became silent. The meeting of the Second Continental Congress had begun.

Selah tried to pay attention. She _tried_. But she could only listen to dull, monotone voices for so long. It didn't help she kept her gaze towards the floor, trying to make herself invisible. Only pieces of the debate were registered while the rest was garbled mumbles. More than once, the woman closed her eyes and almost drifted to sleep, only to be jostled by an elbow from Lee. It would bring her back to the living and force her to hear the debate going across the room.

First the delegates had to decide if they truly were at war with their mother country (which they were) and whether it was something they truly wanted. Then they starting blabbering about who would be proper diplomats to negotiate with Parliament, and who would manage Congress itself. Names were passed around, but Selah didn't catch any of them. Next was the debate what to do with all the militias, which apparently were formed for the very purpose of defense. Eventually it was agreed that the militias were to be one body. An army. The Continental Army.

"And who will lead this _great_ army?" Lee spoke up when the delegates were just about to move on to the next topic. Several of the delegates stared at him stupidly.

"I beg your pardon?" the speaker in the front of the room questioned. The man rolled his eyes.

"You cannot have an army without a chain of command. Doesn't matter how many men you may have-hundreds, thousands-if they have no one to follow orders from."

"They will follow the orders of Congress!" a delegate spoke out. Lee's tone was like a parent lecturing their children.

"Congress may give the Army direction, but it needs a _leader_. A single man that will guide the men. It needs a general-a commander-in-chief."

Murmurs drifted across the room, many being of agreement. Selah glanced over at Lee. The Master Templar was silent for most part of the session, only adding a comment here and there. Even though his countenance was still inscrutable, almost bored, the woman could see the cogs turning in his head. He was plotting. Another delegate with a southern accent continued the conversation.

"And what sort of general do you propose?" he asked.

"Someone with experience, naturally," Lee answered. He placed a hand on his chest. "Like myself, for example. Over twenty years of service, even before the French and Indian War."

"So you've had experiences with battles?"

"Oh, yes. I served as commander of several battles. And I have just come from a long campaign in Poland, serving as aide-de-camp of King Stanislaus."

The mutterings returned, hurried and excited. Selah rolled her eyes. Give it to Lee to talk about himself. However, she reluctantly realized this was part of the plan. Things had gotten too out of hand. The Templar Order needed to regain control, and so it needed to take the reins itself. Meanwhile the speaker continued the interview, who squinted at the man.

"If you were serving in Poland, why did you come all the way to America?" he questioned.

"Everyone knows of the mistreatment the colonies have been subject to," Lee answered.

 _Lie,_ Selah thought. _The papers are probably calling us traitors._ However, the girl kept her mouth shut as her superior went on.

"I believe all men are created equal and should be treated as so. I'd rather fight for a just cause than the politics of Europe. I even removed myself from my Royal commission to come here."

"But you have not been to the colonies since the French and Indian War, yes?" the speaker observed. "What makes you think you're so fit for the position?"

"Simply because I see no one else better," Lee replied. "And after all, they will listen to me, a fellow British gentlemen."

Immediately there were whispers, but they did not hold the same tone as before. Selah glanced up to see several frowns.

"You're not even from the colonies?" one delegate gasped.

"No," Lee admitted. "But are we all not British citizens?" When there were only more uncertain mutters, he added, "Please, I sacrificed my career to join your noble cause. If anything, I'm doing you a favor."

" _Favor_?" the speaker scoffed.

"Yes. Why I think it's only fair I get paid for my services _._

"Payment?! We haven't even considered our finances, yet!"

"Then there's your problem. That's the first thing that must be discussed."

The speaker looked like he was slapped in the face, and other delegates had similar expressions. Selah's skin crawled. Stupid fool was rather painting himself as a hired general than a hero.

"Honestly speaking, a man shouldn't have to be paid to serve his fellow countrymen," a voice spoke up.

Selah glanced up and her heart stopped. The breath was stolen from her lungs and her vision tunneled, until all she saw was a certain figure. He was dressed in a military uniform, but instead of the blood-red of most marines, it was a calm blue. Not a button was out of place and his white trousers were spotless, along with his polished boots. Silver hair was tied back in a neat queue, even more so than Haytham's. Suddenly the hall around Selah was replaced by wilderness of the frontier, watching helpless as the same figure stormed towards a defenseless village, leading an army.

George Washington.

 _No_. What was _he_ doing here? Haytham promised to inform her of the bastard's movements, but only if it were relevant to the woman. So why hadn't he told her that Washington would be here?! While Selah had frozen up like a statue, Lee was oblivious of her state as he leered at the interrupter. If he knew who the military officer was, he didn't show it.

"I beg your pardon?" the man growled. Washington shifted in his seat and glanced down, not much different than what Selah was doing mere moments ago.

"In the end, we're all going to be hanged as traitors," the military officer pointed out. "It just seems silly to me to be expected to be rewarded when we all are in the same boat."

Lee snorted at his statement. "So the first thing I should do when becoming a general is have myself killed?"

Washington frowned. "I didn't say that. But it was your own choice to leave the Royal Army. I am simply saying you should face the same consequences as the rest of us."

"Oh, so you think I'm asking too much, then?"

Washington was silent as he shifted uncomfortably, either unable to come up with a response or avoiding to continue the conflict. Suddenly a nasally voice interrupted.

"Come now, we're all confidants here," Benjamin Franklin said. "Sure we can speak civilly. George Washington-"

"Oh, yes, I've heard of you!" Lee interrupted. "You're that fool that started French and Indian War. Was it not your men that fired upon a French patrol, killing poor Jumonville, their commander?"

Several gasps were the response and Washington once again shifted.

"I will admit the attack was a poor decision was on my part," he confessed, "but I will not hold myself responsible for Jumonville's death. The French knew the consequences for trespassing on British territory."

"You trespassed on _their_ territory."

"They threatened a British fort. I was simply defending my country."

"And who defended General Braddock?"

Washington looked down while Selah glanced up. Haytham told her about that. Edward Braddock, an esteemed British general and Master Templar. Only whenever he gained more power, he became more ruthless. The Grandmaster told the woman how he served under the military officer, only to witness the Bulldog slaughter innocent citizens. Eventually he became bold enough to invade Ohio Country to steal it from the French, but it backfired when the French instead ambushed them, along with Haytham's native allies. The ill-fated trip was remembered as the Braddock Expedition, and it was the general's last.

"That's right, you were Braddock's aide," a delegate remembered.

"His guide, to be more precise," Washington corrected. "I knew the roads well, and I agreed to work under him as a staff volunteer."

"Some guide," Lee mocked. "You lead him to his death!"

"That was all his doing," the military officer defended. "I suggested to take another route, as my scouts spotted resistance, but he insisted to take the shorter route to save time. By the time we realized what was happening, it was too late. All I could do was lead the men in an organized retreat. I… I tried to go back for him… but I was too late..."

"That's right," a man spoke out. "Rumor says he was still alive after being gutted by a French frog."

"At the time he was, but he did not make the journey home."

Haytham failed to complete an assassination? Selah made a silent vow to ensure he never found out. He had enough to annoy him as it was.

"So under heavy enemy fire and as your entire column retreated, you were the only one that went to retrieve poor Braddock?" the speaker observed.

"I know many did not have love for the man, not even I, but he was still my superior. After all, it did not sit right with me to leave him to rot. Yes, I went back for him, I only regret I could not save him."

"Still, such a feat requires an extraordinary amount of bravery."

"Word says he took four bullets to the chest to do so," a delegate added excitingly. Selah raised a fist to her mouth.

"Bullshit," she coughed.

"I am no hero," Washington insisted when whispers filled the room. "I was simply doing my duty."

"A stupid one, at that," Lee muttered.

"You said you were chosen for knowing the area," a delegate recalled. "What were you to be so well acquainted?"

"I was a major of a militia, for one," Washington answered. "And I went on hunting trips when I was a lad with my older brother, Lawrence Washington."

Several gasps while Selah just stared dumbly.

"So you come from a military family," the speaker observed.

"No, not really. Just my brother and I, but Lawrence takes the credit. He was an inspiration to me, and his spirit lead me to serve."

A disapproving scoff from Lee, but it was largely ignored as all the delegates' attention was on the military officer. Meanwhile, the old speaker was squinting his eyes.

"Lawrence Washington… Wasn't he the folk that owned Mount Vernon?" he asked.

"Yes," Washington answered. "But I inherited it after... his death."

"Oh! I've been there!" Benjamin Franklin exclaimed excitingly. "You, sir, know how to throw a party."

Washington gave a shy, charming smile. "Thank you, good sir."

"This is irrelevant!" Lee spat, interrupting the conversation as he jumped to his feet. "My fellow countrymen, I implore you, consider the weight of your decision. A proper leader must be chosen, or we _all_ will suffer."

The speaker hummed. "I say you have a point, Lee. But since you have empathized that this is such a dire matter, then I believe it's fair we all have a say on it. I suggest we bring it to a vote."

"Mr. Speaker, this is a waste of time," the Master Templar protested. "We could end up being here for hours, just because one pillock-"

"As this is my house, it will be done by my rules," the speaker snapped harshly. "And are you saying your fellow delegates are incapable?"

"O-Of course not."

"Then sit down." With a growl, the Templar obeyed. The speaker gave a nod of approval and continued. "Now then. I believe all of you have a spare parchment in front of you. Each delegate shall write the name of who he nominates on the sheet of paper." Lee was already getting to work, but paused when the speaker snapped, "And you _may not_ nominate yourself."

The Master Templar growled and crumbled up the parchment before tossing it away. The next minute was spent with the rusting of paper and the scratching of quills. Another minute was filled as the delegates handed their nomination one-by-one towards the speaker in the front of the room. The man received them and waited patiently as the last one was handed in. When silence fell over the room, the speaker opened up the first letter.

"Charles Lee."

Lee gave a wicked, victorious smirk.

"George Washington."

Lee's smirk disappeared. The Patriot's name was called again. And again. Then Lee's. It became an absurd game, as the speaker called either veteran, occasionally mentioning a vague name. Selah tried to keep count. All Lee needed was the most votes, and he would become Commander-in-Chief, and the Templars would control the Continental Army. Finally the last letter was in the speaker's hand. According to Selah's count, Lee and Washington were tied. Please-

"George Washington."

Her heart stopped. _No._

"There we have it," the speaker announced, as if a hide burden was lifted from his shoulders, when that certainly was not the case for Selah. "Washington shall be Commander-in-Chief. Charles Lee, who had the second most votes, shall be Major General of the Army."

Lee's eyes went wide with horror. For once, Selah was in the same state.

"This is outrageous!" The man shouted as he jumped to his feet. "Have you all gone mad? The facts are in front of you. George Washington is incapable of following simple orders, never mind leading an army. If anyone-"

"If anyone speaks out in my courtroom again, they will be removed," the speaker said in a deadly tone. "Including you, _General_ Lee."

The Master Templar's face reddened when he looked around the room, only to see the scrutinizing eyes of Congress. He swallowed thickly and slowly sat back down, strangely pale. In fact, he was almost the same color as Selah beside him. She gripped the edges of her seat, her knuckles white. Anyone but him. _Anyone but him._ An awkward silence lingered before Washington broke it.

"If the speaker will allow it, I will like to say a few words," the man requested.

"I will allow it," the speaker replied.

Washington nodded in gratitude and stood from his seat. The silence was deafening as he made his way to the front of the room, before the speaker. The newly elected Commander-in-Chief placed a hand on his chest and raised his voice so all could hear.

"I am truly humbled by your faith in me," Washington began. "I promise to act to the best of my ability to perform my duties, as I shall devote my loyalty and my soul to my newfound position. I could not be more grateful for this blessing…"

Each would make Selah ill. No, this could not be happening. This _could not_ be happening.

"...and for the support of the glorious cause."

It took all of Selah's willpower not to jump from her seat and over the table, just so she could drive her blade in the bastard's neck. She instead sat there, trembling with rage.

"I beg they will accept my most cordial thanks for this distinguished testimony of their approbation."

Lee beside her was not any better. The man was seething and glared at Washington with murderous daggers, even as he leaned back with arms crossed. Selah swore she heard him growling, which suspiciously sounded like an angered bear.

"But, lest some unlucky event should happen, unfavorable to my reputation, I beg it may be remembered, by every Gentleman in the room, that I, this day, declare with utmost sincerity, I do not think myself equal to the Command I am honored with."

 _You don't deserve it!_ Selah had to bite her tongue from screaming it out loud. No, it was Lee. Lee was meant to be chosen as commander. Not-not this _monster_. Innocents died because of _him_. Selah shut her eyes, trying to shut out his speech. Instead she heard a voice. And she recognized it almost immediately.

"Truly there is no man better suited to the task," Sam Adams whispered to a large figure next to him.

 _What_?! What was that rebel villain doing here? And sitting in _front of her_. How did Selah not notice before? Then she realized. From the moment she walked in, she tried to ignore her surroundings, and when she realized she shared the room with the man she despised above all else, her entire focus was on him. She didn't give a second glance to the row before her.

"Really?" Lee drawled in response to the man's statement. "I can think of several."

Suddenly the large figure stiffened. "Charles Lee."

The man stood up and turned around, allowing Selah to see his face. All the breath was stolen from her lungs. The shadow of his hood was gone, but she was instantly reminded of that sinister expression that had glared at her. The Assassin.

He didn't look what Selah expected. His raven-black hair was tied in a makeshift queue, but most of it was untamed, falling to his shoulders. His broad face was chiseled with strong features, his dark eyes burning with hatred. He took several steps toward them.

"Do I know you?" Lee questioned. The Assassin sneered.

"I do not expect you to re—" He cut off as he glanced over to Selah. "You."

"Assassin," Selah snarled.

In a blink of an eye, the Templar jumped to her feet. She lunged towards the freedom fighter, bracing to unsheathe her hidden blades. Damn the witnesses. However, suddenly something wrapped around her waist, keeping her in place. Selah gave a squeak of protest. In front of her, there was an inhuman growl, making her glance up to see Sam Adams holding Connor's arms, restraining him.

"Come now, Connor," the man begged.

"Selah, _behave_ ," Lee scolded from behind the poor woman. The warrior flailed against him, but the Master Templar was stronger than her. Meanwhile, it looked like Adams was struggling with his prisoner as well.

"This way, boy, there's someone I like you to meet," the man said, pulling Connor away. The large native resisted, still sending deadly glares at the two Templars. Lee seemed oblivious.

"Another time, girl," Selah's superior insisted, his voice of authority leaving no room for refusal.

Selah huffed and went limp, more because she realized it wasn't worth the fight rather than obeying him. The Assassin seemed to do likewise, allowing Adams to pull him away towards the front of the room. Washington had finished his speech, now shaking hands to men that were eager to meet the leader of their new army. The two rabble-rousers approached him. Well, rats liked to share nests.

Once the duo was out of earshot, Selah viciously elbowed Lee. He grunted and let go. Instead of running towards her enemies, she turned around, focusing her hatred on him.

"Why didn't you let me kill him?" she hissed.

"Yes, kill a man in broad daylight in the middle of fucking Congress," Lee retorted. "Excellent idea, you fool."

"You didn't tell me they were here."

"What? You expect me to waste my time and go all around the colonies to make a list whom _exactly_ was coming?"

"What do we do?"

"What do you mean, 'what do we do'? Nothing."

" _What_? They're right _there_!"

Selah gestured to where the Assassins were standing, still chatting with George Washington, commander-in-chief of the Continental Army. It drove her mad. _Three_ of her targets—three of the people she hated most in the world, less than ten feet from her. And all she could do was stand silently. Apparently the Assassin, Connor, felt the same, as the Templar didn't fail to notice the nasty looks he would send over his shoulder.

"Yes?" Lee challenged. "There are thirty other men _right there_. Speaking of which, keep your voice down." When Selah glared at him, he said, "If you want to do something productive, go find Pitcairn in Charleston. I'm sure he can find a chore for you."

The Templar blinked. "You're relieving me?"

"Simply because I'm tired with dealing you."

"What about—"

" _He_ will come another time. Until then, you will do as you're told."

The Master Templar glared her down, but Selah glared right back.

"Fine," she muttered, a tone a stubborn teenager would have used.

"Excuse me, Charles Lee, is it?" a voice cut in.

Selah spun around. _Holy_. The woman had to crane her head back to meet the brown eyes of George Washington. And to think she only had to do that with Shay and that damned Assassin.

"What do you want?" Lee demanded with bitterness. Washington extended a hand, but the Templar kept his hands crossed. The Commander-in-Chief frowned, but said nothing and continued in a friendly tone, oblivious to the animosity from the pair.

"I hope there is no enmity between us," the man offered. "I personally think you a fine general, and there is no man I rather be by my side."

"At least that makes one of us," the Master Templar muttered.

Washington ignored him as he glanced at Selah. Naturally the woman stiffened. She remembered the last time she met this man, when she tried to drive a blade into his heart. Did her recognize her, after all these years?

"Hello, and who might you be?" the man asked. Selah was still too tense to give a sigh of relief.

"My attendant," Lee answered before Selah could. "She was just about to get the horses."

He sent her a sideways look, and the younger Templar understood. It was time for her to leave. She nodded and excused herself. She never left a building so quick in her life.

She was actually panting by the time she reached her horse, still trembling from the experience. Damned Lee. Damned Washington. Damned Assassin. She hated them all. At least she was out of there. She almost pitied poor Lee, who would have to be stuck talking with the man that robbed him of his position, but then again, the Templar felt that he deserved it. Fate was laughing at him at all the arrogance he has displayed over the years. And who knows, maybe his temper will get the best of him and he will kill Washington for her.

And if he didn't… then Selah vowed she would watch the last breath leave the "great general."


	26. Part III: Conflict Looms

**Hi, everyone! A double update today! I wanted to make up for missing a week and I felt these two go together. A lot happens, so tell me what you think!**

* * *

Boston had completely transformed since the last time Selah had been there. The woman remembered it as a bustling city filled with innovators, merchants, and immigrants coming to see the New World. But now, Selah only saw a sea of red.

The woman ducked out of the way of a large squadron of regulars, only to barge into another one. The commander sent her a nasty look, but she moved away with a muttered apology. What had once been a civilian city had turned into a military district, eerily similar to Fort George of New York. She even saw large iron guns, the same length as her, being rolled down the street as if part of some absurd parade.

Selah shook her head. After the incident at Independence Hall, she had galloped all through the night—avoiding the rebel patrols that had blockaded the roads—only to be greeted with this chaos.

"Sir, you cannot—" a voice of a soldier said behind her, only to cut off as Selah turned around. The man's eyes widened. "Um, ma'am?"

He said more like as a surprise than a formality. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes or challenge him, Selah asked simply, "Where is Major Pitcairn?"

"Why do you need to know?"

Selah went to pull out the major's letter, but another voice cut her off. Immediately the woman's stomach filled with dread.

"I'll take care of her, private," Eleanor Mallow said. "You are excused."

"Yes, ma'am," the regular replied. Selah did not fail to notice the hint of reluctance in his voice. He briskly walked away, leaving the two women alone.

"Selah," Eleanor greeted, but it was cold and flat. Selah responded likewise.

"Eleanor."

The woman had not changed much since the last Selah saw her. She was still dressed in her regular uniform and her eyes were just as unforgiving as ever. The only thing had changed that a couple new medals were pinned to her coat, but Selah didn't know what they stood for. Was being a jealous bitch one?

"I need to speak with Major Pitcairn," the Templar reported.

"Hmm… I don't know," Eleanor drawled in a condescending tone, making Selah's eyes narrow. "The major is _quite_ busy. I don't think he has time for house servants."

Selah knew the malicious woman simply wanted a reaction, so she stayed impassive as she said, "I am relieved from Lee's service."

"That's _Master_ Lee to you. You're his subordinate, remember?"

"I'm no longer under him. My services now go to Pitcairn. _Where is he_?"

Eleanor's piercing gaze was haughty, maybe because she knew Selah was forced to ask her for guidance.

"Right this way," the regular purred, sauntering past her "comrade."

When her back was turned, Selah snarled and mouthed a colorful insult to the woman. Eleanor snapped for her to follow, which the Templar reluctantly did, but kept a slower pace than usual. The redcoat didn't seem to notice, instead continuing to jab at her rival.

"Are you certain you want to see the major?" she questioned. "After you cocked up his last orders, I don't think he wants to see you. Pitcairn has no tolerance for insubordination, after all."

Selah knew she was referring to her failure in the frontier. Instead of anger, humiliation made her cheeks burn. "How did you know about that?"

"Oh, everybody in the Order knows about that. Someone had to explain why we are going to war with Great Britain. Which is official now, by the way."

Guilt twisted Selah's stomach, but she still clung to hope. "If we force the rebels to surrender now, there won't be the war."

"And we wouldn't be here in the first place if you'd done your job."

Selah knew better than to let Eleanor's words bother her and refused to give the other woman any satisfaction, but in a matter of a minute, the Templar's spirits dropped. She had been hearing these same words for months. From Church, from Lee, and even Haytham, when Selah eavesdropped on him one night. Now from Eleanor, who was just echoing not just the Inner Sanctum, but apparently majority of the Order. And the fact that many people considered her a failure made her feel the size of an inch.

 _She's just trying to get to you,_ Selah told herself. _It's likely she's lying. She's jealous that I have Haytham's attention—always has been._

Eleanor had started from the bottom like her, and though she was a raised Templar, she was an outsider in a world only allowed for men. Selah was aware how it must have drove the woman mad, to see an Assassin, of all people, claim the attention she never had. It didn't help that Selah had risen through the ranks much faster than the redcoat. Eleanor hated her for the same reason Lee hated her. Selah was a threat.

"I guess it shouldn't be surprising," the witch went on, interrupting the Templar's thoughts, "considering you let a murdering Assassin on the loose."

As first, Selah thought Eleanor meant Connor, then after a moment, she realized. The Nightstalker. A survivor of the Purge that hunted wife abusers instead of Templars. The woman almost forgotten about his capture, when it was so many years ago. Selah narrowed her eyes. She was the one that decided he was no threat to the Order and negotiated his release. How could Eleanor possibly know about that? It was only between Haytham and her. Then the Templar realized.

Major Mallow. Like his daughter, the man had a passionate hatred towards Assassins. Not only that, he was close friends with Lee, who shared a similar opinion. And as Lee was a favorite of Haytham, Mallow had easy access to Inner Sanctum business. Selah gritted her teeth at the chain of information that Eleanor took advantage of.

"There has been no sign of the Nightstalker since his release and no Templars have been reported missing," Selah defended. "And he no longer holds loyalty to the Brotherhood. Joe is not a threat."

"Did he tell you that?" Eleanor retorted. "You say you're one of us, but you have proven you're still an Assassin."

"I beg your pardon?"

"How come an Assassin escapes whenever you're around? Oh, please, I am not that gullible."

Selah gritted her teeth. "Then I promise you, he will not escape the next time we meet."

"Then I'll hold you to that promise," Eleanor said haughtily. "Although, pray don't expect William to come saving your arse every time you trip on the road like a drunk." _She would know about that…_ "You know, he only tolerates you because his little brother had such a liking to you. Shame that—"

" _Enough_ , Eleanor."

The redcoat went silent, but Selah noticed her head tilting up, most likely raising her chin in triumph. Thankfully the ex-Assassin didn't have to suffer this abuse any longer, as Eleanor finally paused.

"Pitcairn set up his headquarters in there," she reported, gesturing towards a plain building.

Selah didn't say thanks, instead brushing past the woman. Only when she did, Eleanor snatched her arm in a vice grip. The captive spun around, bracing to slap or stab her—whichever came first.

However, she stopped herself as Eleanor said in a low, venomous voice, "One more thing. Lieutenant William has a great destiny waiting for him. I will not let you be the ruin of his career."

 _Oh_. So that was why Eleanor was so defensive over William.

"Please, Eleanor," Selah scoffed. "You can have his cock. I want nothing of him."

With that, the Templar wrenched her arm free and stormed towards the building, still feeling the redcoat's daggers burying in her back. What a spiteful woman.

Selah showed her letter to the guards posted outside and was allowed entrance. The woman was greeted with fine decor and warm walls, only for there to be furniture to be haphazardly pushed to the side and muddy tracks across the floor. She realized this was a household, but it was seized by the British. No doubt there was some angry citizen out there, cursing his rotten luck. Selah huffed at the thought. Sacrifices had to be made for the greater good.

Hearing voices drifting from a nearby room, the Templar went to open the closed door, only for it to move on its own. She was greeted with a familiar figure.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Shay smiled.

"I wasn't expecting you here," Selah admitted.

"Just thought I'd see what all the excitement is about."

Now it was Selah's turn to smile. Leave it to Shay to so easily bring up her spirits. Along with a second man, who glanced up from his papers to squint at her.

"Selah, what are you doing here?" Pitcairn questioned. "I thought—"

"Charles Lee sent me," Selah interrupted as she barged past Shay's broad form. She noticed William was there, reading a map. "He thought I could be of use."

"But… aren't you injured?"

"I'm well enough."

"Is that so?" Shay questioned. He slapped her side with the back of his hand. Although it wasn't hard, Selah flinched with a squeak as her stitches burned with protest. It didn't help the wound was already sore after a jostling ride through the countryside. The woman glared at the Irishman, only for him to have a wide, mischievous grin.

"You shouldn't be here, Selah," William said, looking up and fixing her with hard eyes.

"I said I'm fine," the Templar insisted.

"Even so, I am afraid you cannot do much," Pitcairn sighed.

Selah looked over to him and her gut twisted. It had only been less than a year since she last saw him, and the man seemed to have aged a decade. His eyes were dark and his skin was dull. He was leaning heavily over the map as he spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

"I just received word those damned rebels have taken position on Bunker Hill, and are already preparing fortifications on Breed's Hill," he reported, pointing the locations on the map.

"We've kept them at bay for the last two months," William added. "But now they're moving closer to the city. They're getting bolder."

"I assume you're putting together a force to go confront them?" Selah inquired.

"That's General Howe's responsibility," Pitcairn said. "But we don't need to take such measures."

Selah cocked an eyebrow. "Why so?"

Behind her, Shay gave a knowing grin. "Because they'll be in range."

Pitcairn nodded. "I have several frigates guarding the Charles River. Their new positions will put them just in range of the mortars. We'll be able to drive them away without losing any of our men's lives."

"Like I said, you shouldn't be here," William muttered. Selah said nothing. So she was useless here, as well.

"Then again, with Lee as their Commander, things will be easier," Pitcairn added. The woman frowned.

"I'm afraid that's not the case," she stated.

She told them about what happened at Independence Hall. As expected, the other Templars showed solemn disappointment, Pitcairn even muttering a colorful Scottish phrase. Selah couldn't remember the last time he cursed. The Templar's gaze looked dark and hollow, like a man in mourning.

"So we are truly at war, then," he sighed, his voice similar to his eyes. "A pity. For it's a war we did not ask for. A war we did not wish…" The man shook his head. "Why would we? We're killing our brothers. And for what? Duty? Honor? Liberty and justice as the Yanks claim? No."

No one interrupted his words, as they all knew there was nothing to say. It was then Selah noticed something else in Pitcairn's eyes. Guilt. She knew why.

"This is not your fault, John," she murmured.

The major shook his head. "Try convincing the Admiralty of that. It is too late now. What's done is done. We best accept it." Spoken as a true Master Templar and Major of the Marine Corps. He lifted off the table and straightened, rolling his shoulders. "I have a meeting with Howe and the other commanders posted in the city. William, can you hold things?"

"Yes, Father," William hummed.

Hearing them in the same room, Selah noticed William's accent was more neutral than his father's thick brogue. Almost British, even. John nodded to his audience and walked out of the room, his coat buttoned and dress sword by his side. As the major left, Shay rolled his shoulders.

"I have business to attend to as well," he announced. "I have to make sure the supplies are unloaded from the ships and distributed to the troops."

"Why is that your job?" Selah asked.

"So I would be out of the way."

With that, the Master Templar left, leaving Selah alone with Lieutenant William. Instantly the woman felt the strained tension between them. She hadn't been in a room alone with him since he saved her life, and because she was so delirious with blood loss and laudanum, she didn't think much of it at the time. Now, she didn't know to start cursing him or praising him.

 _Do you miss him? As much as I do? Are you proud, to be by your father's side? Was it hard, leaving your mother to join the Order?_

"You're staring," William suddenly spoke, interrupting her thoughts.

"I'm thinking," the Templar replied.

"About what?"

"You know what."

It was then the soldier let out a heavy sigh, as if he lost the last of his patience. "We've been over this, Selah. There is no changing the past."

"Do you even _think_ of him?"

"Of course I do. Do you?"

"Every day."

"Then stop. He's not coming back. Robert Pitcairn is dead, Selah."

Immediately Selah's heart wrenched at the name. Instead of the full grown man in front of her, a different figure appeared. A small boy, barely ten years of age, with innocent hazel eyes and chocolate brown hair. Little Robert. The only friend Selah made outside the Templar Order. In some ways, he was like a little brother.

Robert always told her as he was beaming with excitement of the day he would sail the sea. That day came too soon. Selah swallowed.

"He was declared _lost at sea_ ," she corrected.

"What difference does it make?" William demanded. "Five years have passed. If he was alive, we would've known by now."

"There have been people that have been stranded longer."

"Move on, Selah. As I have." The man looked away, trailing off with tired resonation.

Suddenly the woman's belt felt heavier. She didn't have to look to know it was her favored hunting dagger. The same one Robert gave her.

"I don't care if his own family or the whole world turns their back on him," Selah snarled. "I will never forget him. Never."

With that, the Templar stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. She failed to stop the tears that came.

* * *

Selah was shown to a bed with simple decor for the night. The room showed no hints of the identity of the owner, save for a comb and make-up by the washbasin, a sign that they were hastily removed. The woman felt a pang of guilt, but exhaustion replaced the emotion. She collapsed unceremoniously on the bed. She had the sense to get under the sheets, but her delirium and soreness of her travels made it a struggle. Selah fell asleep in an instant, but her sleep was not peaceful.

Soon, when it turned into the late hours of the night, piercing screams filled the air. Eyes still closed, the tortured Templar flailed in her sleep, as if battling an unseen enemy, even it was only the sheets that she clawed. It wasn't long before the door burst open, pouring candlelight into the dark room.

"Selah! Selah, wake up!" Shay commanded. When the woman only replied with another screech, the man placed the candlestick on the side table. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Come on, wake up."

Instantly the woman's eyes snapped open. With another terrified shout, Selah shot up, only for Shay to trap her in an embrace.

"Sh, sh, it's alright," he hushed.

Selah gasped as if she was taking air after diving underwater. In the same moment, her senses returned. She was in Boston. She was safe. The Templar placed a hand on her sweaty brow as she gave a shuttering sigh. She barely registered Shay tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Still having those nightmares, huh?" he asked in a low tone.

"I thought I was done with this madness," Selah groaned.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

The woman rolled over, but still faced Shay. She didn't protest as the man sat on the edge of the bed, gently placing a hand on her back. Selah closed her eyes, trying to push the horrifying images out of her mind. She knew it would be of no use. Even if she was successful, and she usually wasn't, she would only dream the same horrors and repeat the process.

The dreams had haunted her since the Purge of the Colonial Assassins, forcing her to relive the awful events over and over. The nightmares had quelled some when she joined the Templars as a child, but in recent years, they had returned with fervor. Would she ever be at peace?

"I'm sorry, Shay," Selah whispered, "I didn't mean—"

"Sh," the man hushed. He began to gently stroke her back comfortingly. The woman's racing heart had just begun to slow when Shay started to sing.

" _Of all the money that e'er I had,_

 _I spend it in good company."_

It was then the woman's tremors faded and she closed her eyes, breathing through her nose. She still remembered how she used to fear Shay Cormac, the Assassin Hunter that would ruthlessly slaughter her brothers and sisters. She couldn't count the number of tales she was told of the treacherous monster than would murder without a second thought. They couldn't have been more wrong.

" _And all the harm that e'er I've done;_

 _Alas, it was to none but me."_

Shay wasn't a monster. In fact, he wasn't much different than her. He had been through the same pain—and suffered even more—and he truly cared. The same dreams that tortured Selah tortured him, but he did not say a word of them. And like her, he discovered what he truly wanted in life.

" _And all I've done for want of wit_

 _To mem'ry now I can't recall."_

Selah had found herself admiring him—more than just a comrade. He was everything she wasn't. Shay mentored her, like an older brother. Soon, Selah found herself seeing him that way. An older brother, that would do anything to protect his little sister.

" _So fill to me the parting glass_

 _Goodnight and joy be with you all."_

Shay continued to sing the rest of the song, never once faltering, as if he had heard the song countless times. Maybe it was sung to him in the same manner, to soothe a grieving boy of his parents' deaths. By the time the sailor sung the last verse of the shanty, Selah was on the verge of sleep. Shay stroked her back several more times in the lingering silence. When she didn't move, the man silently and slowly lifted off the bed. He blew out the candle and made to leave the room, but Selah stopped him.

"Can you stay with me?" she asked softly.

Shay paused for a moment. He nodded. Selah re-closed her eyes as the man circled around the bed to come to the other side. The mattress dipped as he laid down, even creak coming from the frame. The Master Templar slipped an arm beneath the woman, wrapping his hand around her shoulder. Shay then dragged Selah closer to him, but the woman didn't resist. When they were only a couple inches apart, he placed her head on the crook of his arm. Shay laid his head back down, his nose less than inch from Selah's.

Both were asleep in an instant.

* * *

A clap of thunder awoke Selah from her slumber. She snapped her eyes open, only for another one echo in the distance. Startled, she shot up in the bed. Another.

"What in the world?" she gasped.

"It's just the mortars," Shay's sleepy voice came. His words were slurred and the man hadn't even opened his eyes.

"Bloody hell. Could they make any more noise?" In answer, a volley of mortar sounded, the combined firing sounding even louder than the first. Selah groaned. "Apparently they can."

"Go back to sleep," Shay mumbled. "They'll be doing this all day."

Selah knew it was easy for Shay to say. Sailing all over the world, he had seen his fair share of excitement. Hurricanes, battles, and who knew what else. He had adapted to falling asleep to roaring waves, sometimes in the middle of a thunderous storm. Mortar fire was no different to him. However, Selah, who didn't have the same experience, flinched every time a _crack_ sounded.

"Go ahead," the woman whispered. "I need to go speak with Pitcairn."

Instead of forming words, Shay let out a string of unintelligible mumbles until he fell back to sleep with a groan. Selah let out an amused snort before slipping out of bed. She quickly changed and freshened herself up in the bathroom, away from Shay in case he awoke (which the woman highly doubted).

She traveled outside, only to wince as the mortar fire was even louder. Selah seemed to be the only one that minded, as the soldiers continued their business as if immune to it. They most likely were. The sun had just risen above the horizon, filling the sky with a pale light as a thin mist still lingered, not yet dissipated by the heat of a summer day. The woman walked around, continuing yesterday's game of dodging hurrying regulars. However, as she ducked around a squadron of grenadiers, she only rammed into something solid that also made a grunt of surprise.

"I beg your pardon," she mumbled.

"My fault, my lady," the man replied. Or, boy, rather. He looked young, at least several years fewer than Selah. At first the Templar gave his attire no mind, until she noticed his coat was made of leather and a rifle was slung over his shoulder.

She did a double take. What was a frontiersman doing in the city, at this time? She looked over her shoulder to see the stranger walking up to another man. He looked like a chef, in his stained apron and cloth around his head. Even more bizarre. And why did he look so familiar? The two exchanged words and Selah's skin tingled. However, before she could investigate, a man on a horse barged past, forming a wall between her and the strangers. When the horse moved past, they were gone.

Selah blinked and shook her head. She was paranoid. Nothing more. Or maybe it was the blasted mortars that had her so on edge. She continued her journey until she finally found Major Pitcairn, but he wasn't alone. Selah smiled when she recognized Gist.

"The _Morrigan_ cannot carry as much ammunition as the other ships," John was saying. "I want her to participate in several rounds, but then I want her removed from the channel to make way for the ships-of-the-line."

"I'll have to see with her captain, first," Gist replied. "May I add, Major, that the _Morrigan_ is the best of her kind. I hate to put her to waste."

"I agree, Master Gist. When she is relieved, have her taken to Fort Hill to resupply. Then join the barricades with Nicholas Biddle. I would be telling this Captain Cormac myself, but I'm afraid I am short on time."

"I understand, Major. I'll let him know right away. Where are we to fire?"

"Charleston."

"What?" Selah interrupted, stepping up to them. "But there are civilians there!"

"I received word so are the rebels. We have to draw them out," John explained.

"You said you were using the mortar fire to avoid conflict. But instead you'll be spilling more blood!"

"Selah, there is no say in the matter. These orders are from Howe."

"Then let me speak with him."

John opened his mouth to reply, his eyes blazing, but he never had the chance. Suddenly a booming thunder—twice as loud as the mortar fire—filled the air. Selah jumped at the noise—and the ground trembled beneath her feet. The woman looked up, only to see a black column rising above the city's buildings. John looked horrified.

"That's the gunpowder storage!" he cried. "What in blazes happened?!"

"Uh, all our ammunition was in there, sir," Gist stated timidly. The Scottish man cursed. Selah took a step forward, but the major pushed her back with his arm.

"No, we'll take care of this," he said. Selah tried to protest, but he cut her off. "Report to Cormac and tell him he is to take the _Morrigan_ across the Charles River. Hurry, before more lives are lost."

Selah nodded and took a step back. She whirled around and sprinted away. Like a salmon swimming upstream, she shoved between bodies of soldiers, most of them racing towards the opposite direction—towards the storage.

"Put out the fire before it spreads!" a man yelled, but Selah barely registered it.

She made it to the headquarters in a heartbeat, slamming the door open. Shay was there, but instead of paying attention to her, he focused his hard stare out the window.

"Shay! There's a fire in Boston—you need to—" she panted rapidly, but the man cut her off.

"You hear that?"

"What?" Selah stopped but didn't hear anything. Only silence.

"The mortars. They've stopped."

* * *

 **A moment of silence for Robert Pitcairn…**

 **I'm sorry, guys, but Robert disappears from history in 1770. It was believed he was lost to a storm, as the last document of him was his ship sailing to the Comoros Islands, only to vanish without a trace. I thought long and hard if I wanted to go along with this or scratch it, but you see my decision. I believed his "death" would explain Selah's harsh behavior and provide character development.**

 **On a happier note, I finally got some fluff into this story, which I bet some of you have been missing. Yep, Selah's nightmares still haven't gone away, which is a common symptom of PTSD. I also took the liberty to explain her relationship with Shay, as many of you have been wondering since** _ **Crossed Eagle**_ **. To make it clear, Selah had a** _ **crush**_ **on Shay, but got over it as they began working together. And many of you should have recognized that shanty I used. Google it if you don't.**


	27. Part III: Battle of Bunker Hill

**Still with me? Yay! Alright, this chapter is the actual Battle of Bunker Hill. As always, I try to be accurate as possible, but historical battles are the bane of my existence, so I didn't go into depth for this one. Also, I find Superhuman - Damned, really fits this chapter, especially the battle scene. So go and put it on. Back? Yes, I know it's the trailer music. Enjoy!**

 **Warning: This chapter contains graphic content. Remember this story is M-rated and it is Assassin's Creed after all, but the queasy have been warned.**

* * *

Connor gasped as fresh air filled his lungs. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and his muscles felt tense, as if the explosion was still behind him. A high-pitched ring filled his ears, drowning out the screams dying men—some of them ablaze—as they jumped to their doom. The ships groaned and hissed in protest as fire ate the wooden hull and the water swallowed what remained. But there were no longer the deafening claps of thunder.

Connor groaned as he stroked the water to move forward, crossing the agonizing distance back to the pier. He reached up for the top of the barrier, only for his fingertips slipped off the edge of the pier. The Assassin groaned and tried again. This time, an iron grip wrapped around his wrist and pulled his arm.

"You just never fail to impress, do you?" Joseph Warren laughed.

Connor was like a fish out of water as the Son dragged him onto the docks, gasping and coughing. He wasn't wounded, by some miracle, but that was not an experience he wished to relive any time soon.

"Is it done?" he demanded between pants.

"Yes, it's done," Warren confirmed.

The Assassin paused and listened for a moment. The shelling had stopped. It worked. He stood up, though shakily, and looked over the water. Two thick columns of black smoke rose from the pair of ships, which were already nearly submerged. Across the river, a third column lingered above the buildings of Boston.

Stephane and Clipper did it. Their stunt was the perfect distraction for Connor's mission. Everyone on the ships were so transfixed on the disaster, no one noticed the Assassin stealthy killing their comrades right behind them. Not only that, the recruits had destroyed a large portion of the Army's ammunition. That should slow them down.

"Come, we need to return to Putnam quickly," Warren ordered.

Unable to speak, Connor nodded and followed him to a pair of horses tied to a post nearby. After mounting, Warren led the way down the dock, turning the corner into an open market. The native followed his example, only for bile to rise to his mouth, burning his throat.

The unmoving corpses of both soldiers and Patriots littered the ground, but it was hard to tell which was which due to the crimson stains. Some bodies were unrecognizable, blasted apart by the shellings so that only bloody, charred flesh remained. Others had fallen victim to bayonets, a couple sliced open so that their entrails spilled across the ground. The cobblestone ground was soaked with blood and thick smoke lingered, stinging the Assassin's eyes and the acidic smell assaulting his nostrils.

Nausea made Connor's head swim and he swore he swayed in his saddle. Warren's frowned but his eyes were like stone.

"Best not to look at it," he murmured.

 _How_? Connor wanted to demand.

He said nothing, though, as the duo traveled through the center of the market. Only when the massacre was behind them, the horrors continued.

The rubble of what once was Charleston surrounded Connor, entire roofs caved in or entire walls knocked over. The Assassin found a couple large piles of debris that were once houses. Pockets of fire burned throughout the city, either from the shelling or neglect. More corpses littered the street and only a handful still moved.

Survivors looked as lifeless as the dead. Their eyes were hollow and dull, barely registering their surroundings. The native's heart wrenched he suddenly heard the wailing scream of a woman, clutching a blonde boy, unmoving in her arms.

Finally the pair made it out of the city, galloping through the woods. Even though they were away from the fires of Charleston, the air was still hazy with smoke. Connor didn't even notice his eyes were watering.

The steeds climbed up a rise and the Continental Army greeted the Assassin. Except none of the boys were paying attention to the newcomers, even as Connor and Warren dismounted and neared. Instead, everyone faced a man with a mangy brown hair. He was dressed in a military uniform—the only one, in fact, but it was disheveled and dirty. The man, Israel Putnam, didn't even seem to notice as he paced back and forth in front of his ranks.

"The enemy advances and you tremble," the general's voice drifted over the men. "They've better numbers, you say. Better weapons. Better training. But I do not fear, and neither should you. For what they have in material, they lack in conviction and care. But not us! We have passion! We _believe_! We _will_ win this war!" At that, there was a collective cheer and whistles of approval. Before it could properly die down, Putnam continued, "So maintain vigilance. Conserve your ammo. Ensure a proper line of site. And above all else, men: do not fire, until you see the whites of their eyes!"

The cheers rose into a roar, the soldiers throwing their muskets into the air. Connor didn't join them, merely looking at the men around him. All of them didn't look any better than Putman, majority having their faces filthy with grime and some with dried blood. But all their faces gleamed with determination and strength. Connor found himself joining them. Yes, they will win this fight.

Orders were given out and the party disbanded, allowing the Assassin and Warren to approach Putnam, who collapsed on a crate.

"I'll be damned," the general said as he took a tug of his cigar. Connor doubted that was safe as the man sat next to a barrel of gunpowder, but he chose not to say anything. "You did it."

"That was… quite a speech," the teenager managed, ignoring his comment.

"Lies, all of it, I'll be honest. Still, such words have carried us thus far…"

"If that's what it takes, then we'll take it," Warren said somberly. Putnam nodded and stood.

"The regulars are preparing another advance," the general reported, as he strolled away, his comrades following him. "I'm afraid we won't stand." Connor snapped his gaze towards the man as he explained, "We lack proper ammunition and majority of my men are wounded. I've already pushed them back twice, but they're regrouped each time and now they have reinforcements under Major Pitcairn."

Connor's skin tingled at the name. "Where is he?"

"He left Boston, as I said he would," Putnam said, handing a monocular to the native, "but he now leads a force of three hundred Royal Marines."

Sure enough, the Assassin brought up the scope to his eye, seeing the Master Templar sitting on a golden stallion surrounded by an army of redcoats. The trained soldiers marched in unison as they formed perfect rows, their commander looking down on them with cold, calculating eyes. Already, the firing lines unleashed an onslaught of artillery, joining the rest of the chaos spanning across the field.

"There's no way to get at him—not with that maelstrom," Putnam went on, as if he was observing the same factors Connor was, or maybe he had already done so. "I suppose you could circle around a bit, or wait for us to thin their ranks."

"There is no time," the teenager argued. "I will have to take a direct approach."

"That's twice today you've proposed the impossible."

"He has quite a talent for accomplishing it, you cannot ignore," Warren interrupted. Putnam only snorted in disbelief. The Son ignored him as he turned to Connor. "You're not going alone. My men and I will lend you assistance."

The Assassin opened his mouth to argue, but closed it when he saw determination in Warren's eyes. The same kind he saw in the soldiers, even though their deaths were eminent. The general had made up his mind. Connor nodded.

"We will cover the southern position," Warren told Putnam. "Can you cover our flanks?"

"We will try," the old general grunted. "But I won't make any promises."

Warren only nodded at nonreassuring reply and walked away, Connor following. Around them, men ran in all directions. The Assassin couldn't even tell what any of them were doing, as their haste seemed aimless. His companion seemed to notice as well.

"I pray we make through this day," the Son muttered. "It appears to me there has never been more confusion and less command."

The statement made Connor's gut wrench but they paused when they came to a squadron of young men.

"Get ready, men!" Warren shouted. Immediately the boys snapped to attention, standing still as statues as their general moved to stand in front of them and raised his voice so all could hear him. "Before us stands the greatest Navy in all of mankind." Connor didn't know how it was a battle speech, considering as he saw several frowns from the soldiers. "But we have something they do not. We have courage. The courage to protect our home. We cannot be consumed by our petty differences anymore. Today, we are united under one banner. We will no longer be oppressed, allowing our voices to be muzzled. We will be ignored no longer. We will be heard. Even if we have to raise arms again our mother country. These fellows say we won't fight. But by Heaven, I hope I shall die up to my knees in blood!"

Immediately the men, who were shaking in their boots moments before, let out roars and screams of determination. Connor even noticed some of the other soldiers glanced curiously and others that listened joined in the celebration. The boys threw their muskets and a couple tossed their hats. Warren went stiff with authority, turning around as he snatched a musket for himself.

"With me!" he barked.

Immediately the soldiers collected themselves and stepped behind the general. Connor joined them, readying both his tomahawk and his flintlock. These men were willing to fight and die in the name of freedom. They spoke of liberty and justice. Then the native's gut wrenched. But for who?

The group pushed forward, coming to a stop at the bottom at the hill, lining up and reading their weapons behind a cluster of large boulders. To Connor's surprise, he saw Warren joining them. Weren't commanders supposed to stay out of the line of fire?

"Warren, you should stay back," the Assassin advised.

"No," the Son refused. "If I am to fight, I fight along with my fellow Patriots. And for God's sake, man, call me Joseph. I believe we are well acquainted enough."

Connor only sputtered at the last bit, remembering Achilles taught him a lesson it was considered rude to call a stranger by their first name. However, the boy said nothing as he stood his ground. Across the field, the Royal Marines were also forming firing lines. The Assassin's eyes narrowed as he noticed Pitcairn was still scrutinizing his men, occasionally shouting orders. Then, like the Templar could sense the boy's gaze, he glanced up and sent a murderous glare. This battle meant far more than the defense of a city.

"Fire!" Warren bellowed.

Bangs echoed across the field as the rebels fired their muskets, throwing a cloud of debris in the air. Almost simultaneously, the regulars also fired. A scream came from beside Connor and he glanced down to see a boy younger than him on the ground, unmoving with a dark crimson hole in his forehead.

"Reload!"

The Patriots ducked under the boulders, rapidly cleaning the barrel of their weapons and filling it with gunpowder. The marines did the same.

"How much longer can we last?" Connor demanded.

"Not much," Warren replied solemnly. "That was just to piss them off. We have to wait until they get closer. We can't afford to waste missed shots."

The Assassin tried to calculate a plan in his head. He had to kill Pitcairn. And soon. Once the Marines were without their commander, they would flee, tipping the scales in the Patriots' favor. However, the only problem was that three hundred men stood between him and his target. Connor knew the wise thing to do was thin their ranks with Warren, but it would take too long. He had to attack now. As he watched the Marines ready their muskets, he had an idea.

"We need to fire again," he told Warren.

"No, it will do no good at this range," the Son rebuked.

"If we fire, they will be forced to retaliate. But they will not be able to attack as they reload their weapons. That is when we charge."

"We _what_?"

Connor gritted his teeth. The Marines were already marching forward, more joining their ranks. They were out of time. He had to strike now.

"It is our only option," the native snapped. "I will do it, with or without you, Joseph."

The man stared at his compatriot for a moment before nodding. "We will follow you." He lifted his head from his crouched position. "Prepare to fire!"

The other soldiers only gave him confused looks, but when the general-acting-private snapped again, they braced their weapons. Just as the Marines readied their muskets, the Patriots fired. Only a few of the regulars fell. Even though, Connor could see their eyes burn with fury.

"Take cover!" he shouted as he ducked behind his shelter, the rest following his example. A string of shots fired, followed by silence. " _Now_!"

Without hesitation, the Assassin jumped up and vaulted himself over the boulders. He sprinted towards the red army, going as fast as his legs would allow. He probably looked something like a bull to the soldiers, who stared at him with various looks of shock and disbelief. He felt the same stares boring into his back, but no heat of bodies beside him. Then he heard Warren's shout.

"Charge!" he roared.

Suddenly battle cries sounded behind Connor and the Marines' confusion turned into horror. The firing line rapidly tried to prepare their weapons, but they fumbled with the devices in their panic. Some of the smarter ones realized it was inevitable and instead readied their bayonets for the incoming mob. Their efforts were pointless.

Connor took a mighty leap, diving into a mob of redcoats, unsheathing his hidden blades. The men screamed in surprise as he interrupted their line and kill two of their comrades. The Assassin landed on his feet, replacing one of his blades with his tomahawk. Suddenly he saw a flicker of movement, spinning around just in time to avoid a bayonet aimed for his chest. The soldier widened his eyes as he realized he missed, but it was too late as the native slit his throat with his tomahawk.

As the corpse fell, Connor snatched the musket and spun around, cracking the butt of the weapon against a man's skull. He fell to the ground and the Assassin twisted his hold on the weapon, just in time to skewer a redcoat in the gut. Noticing another one nearing from behind his comrade with a raised sword, the teenager pulled the trigger. The body twitched as the bullet went through it and the man behind it fell.

"On him!" Connor heard Pitcairn shout. "Kill him!"

Connor dropped his gruesome work to glance over his shoulder, only to see a group of redcoats taking aim at him. Before they could fire, a mob of rebels crashed into them like a wave. Around him, yells and clangs of weapons sounded as the two sides clashed. The Assassin smirked and continued the battle. He remembered the speeches he had heard. They _will_ win, and there will be freedom for _all_.

The Mohawk buried his hidden blade in a regular's stomach, dragging it up until it reached his sternum with a wet tearing sound of flesh. The victim gapped for air that did not come and Connor moved away to bury his tomahawk in the back of a man's skull. As the man fell, the Assassin pulled out his flintlock, aiming it at a soldier in the distance. He fired and the assailant fell, just before he could bury his bayonet in Warren's back.

The Son glanced over his shoulder before nodding to Connor. The boy nodded back and turned. Connor's world was filled with red of all shades and screams and glints of metal—all blurring together until he could no longer tell what was what. His body moved independently: slashing and stabbing on its own accord and dodging strikes before his senses could register the threat.

But there was no end. Each time Connor cut down a redcoat, another one took his place. Instead of three hundred, the army seemed to be limitless. The boy could not tell how many of the Patriots still stood, but once he glanced down to find himself stepping on a corpse, no older than himself. He involuntarily flinched, allowing a regular to strike his head with a musket.

The Assassin yelped and stumbled, but retaliated quickly. The soldier didn't bother to line up a shot, instead firing randomly. Connor leaped to the side, but heard the yell of a rebel behind him. He didn't have time to properly register the event as he lunged forward, burying his hidden blade in the marine's chest. He pushed the body to the ground, kneeling over it.

Suddenly he heard a scream of agony, but it wasn't his victim's or even his own. The Mohawk glanced up, only to be seized by horror. Joseph Warren's face was twisted in anguish, gripping the bayonet digging deep into his stomach.

The man gritted his teeth and stayed on his feet, even as the regular pushed against him with a maniacal grin. Warren suddenly pulled out a flintlock, aiming it at his attacker's head. The redcoat's face fell and there was a deafening _crack_. The body fell and Warren clutched at the blade still inside of him. Then with a grunt, the general yanked the bayonet out, only for a gush of blood to pour from the wound. The Patriot swayed.

"Joseph!" Connor wailed, turning towards him. He had to get to him. Now. Before—

Without warning, Warren's neck snapped and his eyes lifted towards the sky. Blood and grey matter flew through the air, splattering on the ground. Part of Joseph's temple was gone. Connor didn't hear his own shout.

" _No_!"

Time seemed to slow as Warren fell to his knees, staining them with his own blood. All the marines around him suddenly turned, raising their muskets in the air. A wall of crimson was formed, swallowing the Patriot general from view. Connor didn't hesitate.

He charged forward, tomahawk and hidden blade unsheathed. He twisted the blade to wrap his fingers around it, giving him more leverage. He cut through the bodies, not giving a second thought. He cut them down, no different than brushes blocking his path.

Suddenly the wall disappeared. Either by exhaustion or momentum or some unknown force, Connor fell to his knees, panting. At first his vision was blurred, but it cleared, but he still had to blink several times. No. This man was not Joseph Warren.

Joseph Warren wore a blue, straight coat, not one of blood-red shades, crumbled and torn to shreds. Joseph Warren had no scars on his body, this man had pieces of his flesh missing. This man did not even have the same face as Joseph Warren, as it was disfigured and stained. Most of all, Joseph would not die in a pool of his own blood.

But he did.

"General Warren!" Connor cried, gripping the shoulders of the thing that was once his friend. The body did not move.

Suddenly Connor forgot the war raging around him. He forgot all the years of training he had spent with Achilles and of the countless men he had killed. He suddenly felt like a young boy, returning to his village to see it burning and too late to save his mother. Just like he was too late to save Warren.

"You should never have meddled in our affairs, Assassin!" Pitcairn's voice came, sharp and mocking. "These colonies are better off without your kind!"

Suddenly Connor felt cold. The sweat that had accumulated underneath his robes felt frigid and his burning, raw throat felt like ice. The iron taste in his mouth disappeared. His chest felt heavy. But his limbs still moved.

The Assassin rose from the fallen general, trembling. He turned, locking with the cruel eyes of John Pitcairn. The major still sat on his horse, unharmed and undisturbed. He sat proud, observing the carnage like it was some sort of entertainment. Warren had fought and died with his comrades. The Master Templar only watched his comrades die.

Connor lunged forward, racing towards the bastard. Suddenly a new wall of gleaming bayonets materialized in front of the Assassin, but he was not wavered. He steered out of the way, avoiding the volley of musket fire. The Mohawk warrior sheathed his blades and his bow appeared in his hands. He had one shot at this.

The teenager stepped on a large boulder, using the momentum to leap into the air. At the same time, he pulled back the string of his bow. Pitcairn's eyes widened but he had no time to stop the arrow from piercing his chest.

The major bellowed and flinched back, unknowingly pulling the reins of his stallion. The horse whinnied in protest and reared, throwing the man to the ground. He did not get up, even as his steed galloped away. Connor took the animal's place, standing over the Templar.

Pitcairn was still alive, but barely. His chest was heaving heavily and blood stained his lips. He raised his hands as if to pluck out the arrow, but it was like he was too weak to do so.

"Why… Why did you do this?" Pitcairn rasped.

"To protect Adams and Hancock and those they serve," Connor answered coldly as he kneeled beside the man. "You meant to kill them, just like Warren—"

"Kill them? Are you mad? I wanted only to parlay!" Suddenly the Templar's eyes glazed with anger. "But you put an end to that now! I could have stopped this war, if you had let me play my part."

"Part of the puppeteer!"

"Better we hold the strings than another!" the major snapped with viciousness.

"No! The strings must be severed! All should be free from your control."

"And we should live forever on castles in the sky. You wield your blade like a man, but your mouth like a child." Suddenly the man coughed up blood, making an ugly sound. The light in his eyes faded and his next words were strained. "Now more will die..."

John Pitcairn's last word ended in a sigh as he rolled his head back, empty eyes still fixed on the sky.

" _It is better to have faith in something rather than none at all,"_ Connor murmured, slipping into his native tongue as he closed the man's eyes. The Assassin felt no pity for him. Whether he wished for peace or not, hundreds had died because of him. Warren had died.

Then a shadow fell over Connor.

" _Get away from him_!" a voice screeched.

The teenager ungracefully jumped out of the way, the sharp end of the sword a hair from his nose. In defense, the Assassin got to his feet and moved away as another figure took his place, leaning over the major's body.

"Father!" the marine cried. Connor froze. What did he…? The man gripped Pitcairn's shoulders, much like the teenager had done with Warren. "Father! Please, no!" Suddenly the regular snapped his gaze up and the Assassin swore he had never seen so much fury in a person's eyes. "Curse you, Assassin! This is your fault! Damn you and all your kind! I have lost my father!"

He ended in a wail, so loud it could be heard across the entire battlefield. Several redcoats even turned, along with Patriots. Cries of dismay came from the men, but Connor couldn't tell whom it came from. British? Patriots? Maybe both.

The Assassin was completely rigid, unable to pull away from the sight before him. His mind couldn't even form proper thoughts.

Then suddenly the world shook and a horrible crash sounded next to Connor. He flinched, only to hear another, this one accompanied by screams. What? The teenager then saw pillars of dust rising from the ground all over the field, several of them throwing groups of Patriots to the ground and even marines. Shelling. But where was it coming from?

It was then Connor noticed from his viewpoint on top of the hill that they were next to the Charles River. A single ship still lingered in the waters, red sails pulled taunt in the wind. The sight disappeared as another mortar landed several feet from the Assassin.

"We must retreat!" a voice said beside Connor.

He turned to see a Patriot, looking filthy and shell-shocked. The Assassin didn't know the proper reply, until he glanced past the man. When there was men of the common people had filled Breed's Hill, there was now the red coats of the British Army. They had overwhelmed Putnam's forces. Connor did not recognize the voice that came from his mouth.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

The soldiers of the Continental Army did not have to be told twice. They stopped their fights and whirled around, some even dropping their weapons. They sprinted across the field without looking back, some headed towards the main body of the Army and others headed towards the woods.

Connor did not remember what path he chose. He only heard the shelling of the British as if it was some sort of celebration of their victory, as the Continental Army fled in defeat.


	28. Part IV: Cloak and Dagger

**Hey, everyone! So sorry for the long absence. Life got in the way and honestly went through a mild haitus. However, I will have a more stable schedule for the next few months, so hopefully I'll continue weekly updates. For those still sticking around, hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The large man lingered in the darkness. The half-moon hung in the sky, drifting behind rolling clouds, cloaking the night in shadow. As the hour was late, the air was quiet. People would probably be locked in their homes, anyway, burying themselves in for the war to come. Fools. They would die eventually, one way or another. They were only delaying the inevitable.

Everything was going according to plan. He had planted the seeds of discord at just the right moment, in just the right conditions. The breakout of the war was certainly helpful. Haytham was more foolish than ever, and his blasted Order was in disarray. The Inner Sanctum was dying. It wouldn't be long now, and he wouldn't even have to lift a finger.

That naive Assassin was doing all the work for him.

It was a pity how low Achilles had gotten, sending in someone so green to do his chores. Then again, it wasn't surprising, considering he had been wasting away for decades. How pathetic.

He watched as a shadow crossed the street. Short, but lithe. The girl's steps weren't fluid-her feet trudged against the ground. He even noticed a slight limp, her movements impaired by old wounds. Her head hung low, like a dog lost from home. Completely ignorant of her surroundings.

Oh, how easy it would be to kill her now. Watch the blood pour from her neck and the life fade from her eyes.

No. Not yet.

Haytham had to suffer, first. _All of them_ had to suffer.

* * *

Selah walked down the streets of Boston, keeping her head low. These roads were unpaved, having dirt cling to the bottom of her boots. Thank God the ground had dried from the other day's storm, or else she would've been covered in mud. Now allowing just enough light for Selah to see.

Because of the late hour, not many souls wandered the roads. Only a handful of drunken miscreants lingered, but none of them paid her any mind. With Selah dressed in leather and a tricorne hat to hide her face, along with her long hair tied, she most likely looked like a male at first glance. Still she kept on her guard. Haytham would die of a failing heart if he learned she was in this part of the city.

But she doubted he would notice. With recent events, the Grandmaster was sleep-deprived with a full schedule, no longer having a minute of rest. The Battle of Bunker Hill had grown into a full-scale war. The Continental Army had begun sieges on several cities, serious enough to send Shay to the Carolinas, where most of the fighting was. Meanwhile, the Grandmaster organized his spies to learn everything they could—from an army's movements to a commander's favorite hobby.

The Continental Army was easy to access information, with Lee as the second-in-command of the rebels (which he was still bitter about). However, nothing was done without George Washington's knowledge and approval, making it difficult for Lee to manipulate the Patriots in the Templars' favor. Sometimes the man did what he wanted anyway, only to cover his actions later. How he got away with it so much, Selah had no idea.

Control over the British was harder. With Pitcairn's death, the Templars' lost any individual that had a prominent influence. Major Mallow became the Order's main contact with the military, including several other commanders that pledged loyalty to the Cross.

Pitcairn.

Although three months had passed from his death, it still stung the woman. The memory still haunted her.

 _"John!"_

 _The major paused his horse as he glanced down at Selah, who was barging past his soldiers to near him._

 _"What are you doing?" the woman demanded._

 _"Our plan failed," John replied simply. "Now I will meet the rebels in combat."_

 _"Do you really think they'll negotiate as your men shoot down their brothers?!"_

 _"They will unless they want more to die."_

 _Selah shook her head. It did not work that way. Killing someone's loved ones only spurred them on, not halted them. She knew that all too well, from personal experience. John could see her disappointment. He reached down and placed his fingers underneath her chin, having her look up at him._

 _"You have every right to be angry," the major said. "But understand I did not want it to come to this. If my hand will be forced, I will not hesitate to use it."_

 _"Then allow me to come with you."_

 _John shook his head. "You've gotten hurt once under my command and you've yet to recover properly. I will not allow it."_

 _"I cannot just sit here!"_

 _"Then I leave the city's defense to you until I return."_

 _Selah only flinched, unable to come up with a proper response and shocked at his statement. She stared and the man only nodded his affirmative._

 _"May the Father of Understanding guide us on this day," John murmured before he wheeled his horse around._

 _"May the Father of Understanding guide us," Selah muttered as she helplessly watched the major climb onto the ship that would ferry him to his troops._

 _If only she had known it would be the last time she would see him alive._

The Templar returned to the present as she pulled open the door to a worn-down tavern. The lighting was dim due to only a handful of candles. Only a few patrons still remained, either drinking their sorrows or they had too little to do. One man stood in the center of the tavern, singing obnoxiously in a raspy voice. No one paid him attention, especially one patron that was sprawled over his table.

Selah ignored them all as she made her way to a back table in an alcove, out of sight of the other patrons. The table was empty, which the woman wasn't surprised to see. She collapsed onto one of the wooden chairs, her legs throbbing from her long walk. Now she would have to wait, alone with her thoughts. She was tempted to join the other patrons in excessive drinking. Owning self-control, Selah ignored the urge. The Templar buried her hands in her hair.

 _Selah burst out of the room, only for a hoarse cry to follow her. She heard the murmurs of Shay's consoling words before the door shut closed. The woman closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands, trying to calm herself._

 _No. No, this wasn't happening. John couldn't be dead. Selah didn't want to believe the body in the room she just left was the esteemed major's. But John was the only man William would mourn over. It had been disturbing to see such a guarded marine cry so violently. He had not even been that way over Robert's loss._

 _Suddenly another door opening made Selah's eyes snap open. She was greeted by two men. One was broad-shouldered but had a lean figure, with salt-and-pepper hair tied in a queue. The other one, at least a decade older, was fuller than his companion with silver hair, cropped at his shoulders. Both wore elegant red coats, a series of medals on each of them. Selah recognized the pair almost instantly._

 _General William Howe and General Thomas Gage. The commander of the battle and Massachusetts military governor._

 _As always, Gage had a look of disdain while Howe's was stone-like as he was completely rigid, thanks to a lifetime serving in the military. Howe didn't even blink when he noticed Selah was a woman._

 _"I was told Pitcairn's remains were here?" he inquired. Selah's tone was flat._

 _"His son is with him," she said._

 _"We've only come to pay our respects."_

 _Selah didn't move as the men barged past her and entered the room. As they left, the woman noticed two new figures. This man was tall and lean, with a untrimmed mustache on his lips and graying black hair tied in a queue._

 _Major Matthew Mallow. Instead of saying an insult or remark, the man paused beside her, looking down on her with a sharp glare. Selah didn't even look in his direction and didn't stop him from following the generals. However, his daughter never failed._

 _"This is all your fault, you know," Eleanor sneered._

 _It took all of Selah's willpower not to stab the bitch. Instead, the woman stormed out without a word, stepping outside to in search of fresh air. However, she was only greeted with the stench of smoke and death. Because of_ her. _Now John was dead. She should've stopped him._

 _Then the Assassin_ —

 _Then Selah's heart stopped. The Assassin. Connor._ He _killed John. Just like he killed William and dozens of other Templars._

 _Selah balled her hand into a fist. He escaped from her one too many times. She would not let it happen again._

"It has been quite some time, _Assassin_ ," a voice mocked as a slim figure sat across from her. Selah sighed and quickly brushed the tears from her eyes.

"It has. Hello, Gillian," the Templar greeted tiredly.

The woman was the same age as Selah, with bright fiery hair and sharp emerald eyes. Her hair had grown out during the years, now passing her shoulders, bound by a single ribbon at its end. Gillian wore a sage dress, but it revealed far more skin than it was considered legal. She had enough sense to have a fur pelt cover her shoulders, but it did not hide the cleavage she showed, which Selah swore was more revealing than the last time they had met. The woman's sleeves and the rim of her dress was cut short, exposing her white limbs. She wore a pair of leather gloves and a tall pair of boots that reached her calves.

Gillian McCarthy fixed Selah with an arrogant smirk and gleaming eyes, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. As the best friend of Eleanor, the Scottish woman had as much hatred for the ex-Assassin as the redcoat. Selah was amazed she showed up at all. But she came, and Selah had to make the most of it.

"I need your help," the Templar started.

"Well, that is a given considering you are the one that called me here," Gillian replied. "Which I still believe I should've refused. Eleanor would have me hung if she found out I was with you. You should be grateful I am such a kind lady."

Selah gave a silent sigh, willing her patience. While Eleanor was blunt and strict after years in the military, Gillian's profession allowed her to expertly smooth and twist her words. It was especially effective with her low, purring voice. Not saying Gillian's insult was precisely subtle, but it was not as direct as Eleanor.

"I believe there are Assassins in the city," the Templar reported.

"Whatever gives you that idea?" Gillian asked, cocking an eyebrow. The seductress seemed genuinely curious, but Selah could still detect the disbelief in her voice.

The Templar had been brooding on the thought for months, ever since she recalled that strange scene before John left for battle. She had seen a pair of men that should not have been present, only to be immediately followed by the destruction of the army's supplies. It was too much of a coincidence. At first Selah believed them to be rebel spies, but she soon scratched that idea. A farmer or a civilian or even a militiaman did not have the skill to sneak past a dozen guards, rig a cache of gunpowder, and escape unseen. No, only an Assassin could have accomplished that.

Selah told Gillian this, the woman surprisingly not interrupting as she listened intently. However, she was not afraid to voice her doubts.

"Damn too good for a coincidence, I'd say," the Templar agreed, "but still too little to go on. Especially considering all you're giving me is an account of a shifty chef and a hunter. Such characters are a dime a dozen in this city."

"There must be _something_ you can do," Selah insisted. Gillain sighed with a shrug of her shoulders.

Gillian was a seductress. She could make any man say anything, tempting them with either her body or a drink, sometimes spiked with her "special recipe." She was without a doubt the Order's best spy, and could learn anything. Still, the Templar was still skeptical.

"Suppose I agree to this goose chase, what do I get out of this?" she demanded.

Selah furrowed her eyebrows. Gillian was hard to read underneath her seductive nature. The Templar knew she had no interest in money, given plenty from her exploits and her salary from the Order. She certainly did not want pride or fame, considering she rarely showed herself in public.

But Selah knew Lady Maverick was selfish. She got what she wanted, and she'll cut down anything in her way to get it. She proved that, when she killed her own little brother, Fillan, in order to join the Templars.

"To rid of an Assassin cell, first of all," Selah said, "in the name of the Templar Order. And to avenge the deaths of two Master Templars."

Gillian tilted her head and her eyes had a dangerous gleam. "Well, ridding of Assassins is always amusing. However, honestly speaking, I never had affection for those two fools-they got what was coming to them—but if Haytham is looking for their killer…" Selah did not dare mention that the Grandmaster did not even know she was here. She listened as the seductress continued. "Speaking of which, how is poor William?"

Selah's heart twisted.

 _The sky was clear and sun glowed brilliantly. Seagulls glided across the currents of the wind, squawking with joy. The ocean was calm and quiet as sailors bellowed orders as the prepared to weigh anchor. A peaceful and beautiful scene, so different from the one over a month earlier, when the chaos of war disrupted the city._

 _"_ _It is a pity to see you go, William," Haytham said as the young Templar checked his bags._

 _"_ _I won't bear the thought of a stranger telling Mother of the death of her husband," William replied. "I rather protect her dignity by telling her myself. And stay with her as long she will need me."_

 _"_ _No doubt she will beside herself. Your words have merit."_

 _The marine nodded and said, "I still pledge to the Cross, Grandmaster. I will return as soon as the winds allow it."_

 _Despite his noble vow, Haytham simply waved his hand. "I respect your decision. Go, child, be with your mother. She will only be part of your life for so long. The Order can wait for you."_

 _Selah stood behind the Grandmaster, looking at her feet. She had no words. The funeral had already been done. Unlike William Johnson's service which had been a damned zoo rather than respective mourning, John's was much quieter. Only a few hand-picked Templars and marines were allowed to attend. It was a fitting farewell for a Master Templar and a major, whose tomb would be left untouched._

 _However, no word was sent to the rest of the Pitcairn family in Scotland. William claimed he would go and keep the matter as private as possible, knowing his father would not want the fanatics of post-death fame and martyrdom. But Selah knew it was more than that. Not only was it a chance for Catherine, Pitcairn's wife, to grieve, but for William as well. The woman honestly could not blame him. While she held the memory of failing to stop John, he held the memory of the man being killed right in front of him._

 _She glanced up to see William walking up, outstretching a hand to Haytham._

 _"_ _Farewell, Grandmaster," the Templar hummed._

 _The Brit untucked his arms from his back and took the young man's hand, shaking it._

 _"_ _Farewell, Lieutenant Pitcairn," Haytham replied. "I bid you fair winds and following seas."_

 _William nodded and then he paused in front of Selah. His hand was a little more hesitant, while Selah's didn't even move._

 _"_ _I know there are some things we will never agree on," the marine said. "But if there is one thing that I am sure of_ — _you are a fine Templar and you have the potential to be one of our best."_

 _Selah was taken aback by the comment. She couldn't remember the last time William complimented her_ — _if he did at all._

 _Unable to think of an appropriate response, she said quietly, "Thank you…"_

 _The man nodded and turned around. Without another word, not even a final farewell, William collected his bags and climbed the ramp, just as the captain gave the yell to weigh anchor._

 _"_ _When do you expect he will return?" Selah asked Haytham. The man had been oddly silent, despite he wanted to see William off, for whatever reason._

 _"_ _Honestly I'll be surprised if he does," the Grandmaster admitted. "Shame, though. Could have used more competent soldiers like him."_

 _The woman blinked at the bitter tone in his voice, but Haytham did not elaborate as he whirled around and stormed away, not even looking in Selah's direction._

"Returned to Scotland," the Templar answered finally.

"Eleanor will be so disappointed," Gillian sighed. "I'd watch myself, if I were you."

"So do I have your help or not?"

Lady Maverick fixed her with a contemplating stare. "Very well."

Selah nearly sighed in relief. However, she kept up her charade as she said, "One more thing. You are not to divulge this to anyone. Even within our own Order."

"Why so?"

"You know Assassins as well as anyone. They are not easily tracked and disappear as soon as they are in danger. We must ensure no information of our exploits is leaked."

It wasn't a complete lie—Selah couldn't risk any chance of the Assassin getting away. But nor could she allow Haytham to interfere, either. He already restricted her from pursuing the Sons of Liberty—she would not put it past the Grandmaster to stop another witch hunt. She had to ensure this only stayed between them. The ex-Assassin just hoped Gillian believed her. Haytham had always commented she was a terrible liar and it was why he refused to send her on covert missions. Gillian gave a suspicious look, raising a slender eyebrow, but apparently it was enough for the seductress.

"As you wish," she relented. "I have an apartment in the city. Meet me there in six weeks time."

Selah did not question her request. Even for Lady Maverick, tracking ghosts would be difficult. She needed time to find such information. The woman could tell even six weeks was pushing it. The Templar nodded her agreement.

After exchanging addresses and a few more words, the two went their separate ways.

* * *

"I didn't do anything, I swear!"

"So those weapons just happened to appear in your cellar," the regular sneered as he clasped the cuffs on the poor man's wrists.

"I'm being framed! I'm not a rebel!"

Selah looked away as the soldiers half-carried, half-dragged the citizen away, who still continued to sob and plead against his captors. It was possible that the man was framed—it certainly wasn't hard—but there was no way to prove it.

Ever since William Howe took Governor Gage's place as the military's Commander-in-Chief, he had no patience for traitors. Anyone suspected of working with the rebels, whether it was espionage or support or even serving them at a local bar, was immediately arrested without trial. So if a man had a quarrel with a neighbor, it would not be too hard to plant false evidence and walk away.

A part of her wanted to interrupt and help the man's case, but another insisted it would do no good. Haytham would have a fit if he learned she got in a scuffle with the military, or worse, got arrested. Not to mention he would learn what she'd been up to.

Selah felt guilty lying and sneaking around the Grandmaster, but it was the only way she could get things done. Even though her "punishment" was technically fulfilled after leaving Lee's service, Haytham was still giving her the silent treatment. When before he would give her a mission every other week, he now gave her none. The Brit claimed because he had no tasks for her, but as she observed the rest of the Order running around like headless chickens. Her stitches had also been removed and the doctor cleared her for active duty, as long as she paced herself. Yet Haytham insisted on grounding her.

Obviously the man was still annoyed with her—but for what, he had refused every suggestion she offered him. So if she told him she wanted to follow a vague lead on the Assassins, the woman doubted he would listen. Selah was on her own. Past Gillian, at least.

The Templar opened the door to the building Lady Maverick had told her about. She had waited six weeks—without a single word from Gillian. She could only hope the spy knew what she was doing—and had gotten useful information.

The apartment was dark as the Templar entered. Not a single candle.

"Gillian?" Selah called.

She sighed. It seems she came at the wrong time. She wasn't surprised that the seductress had an unpredictable schedule. She could be gone for hours—or days. Selah felt awkward—like an intruder, but she was here now. She might as well wait to see if Gillian would show up. If not, Selah could find her some other day. Hopefully.

After fumbling around, Selah found a candlestick and a tinderbox. The corridor illuminated after she lit the piece of wicker. Despite the warm light, the air felt sinister, whispering of danger. Selah's skin crawled. The Templar instinctively wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her dagger. She wandered the apartment, eyes sharp.

Empty. Only shadows greeted her. The furniture that filled the rooms looked lifeless. As Gillian was paid handsomely, she invested in nice decor, but since she was rarely at home and lacked the desire to decorate, her home was still less than what she was worth. However, Selah was considering she wasn't as worthy as she claimed.

The seductress was the one that arranged this meeting, yet she didn't even bother to be present. Selah wouldn't be surprised Gillian was more interested in playing with a man's cock. The little wh—

 _Thud_. Selah flinched as her foot hit something, solid but soft. She glanced down, only for her eyes to widened.

Gillian.

The woman was sprawled across the ground, her open eyes staring at nothing. Her mouth cracked open as if trying to inhale air that wouldn't come. Her satin dress was torn, one of the sleeves missing and the skirt was ripped. Black, evil marks wrapped around her neck. Selah's head spun and bile rose to her throat. Gillian was dead.

H-how? Then Selah heard floorboard behind her creak.

Immediately the Templar unsheathed her dagger and tried to turn around, but was too late. She yelped as a strong arm wrapped around her jugular and an iron hand snatched the hilt of her weapon. Selah hissed and failed, only for her body to be locked in place. The hot breath on her ear sent chills down her spine.

"Well, well, one of Gilly's friends?" an unfamiliar voice rasped as the woman continued her struggles. "Sh, sh, sh! I ain't gonna hurt ya."

Selah knew it was a lie. One hand still trying to pry off the limb around her throat, the Templar balled a fist and elbowed the stranger with as hard as she could. There was a grunt—male—but the limb did not loosen. Selah continued her assault by digging her heel in the man's toes.

He now let out a yelp of pain, and his limb loosened just enough. Acting quickly, the warrior shrugged her shoulders and twisted her head. It gave her just enough leverage to wrench out of his grip. Selah immediately twisted to land a solid kick to her assailant's chest. The man grunted and fell back. In the darkness, the Templar couldn't see details of her attacker, except he was white and wore tattered clothing.

"Did you kill Gillian?" the woman demanded, holding out her dagger. Even in the dim light, she could still see the man's sneer.

"Whatever gives you that impression?" he taunted.

Selah curled her lip and readjusted her hold on her dagger—the same one Robert had given her all those years ago. She lunged and angled the blade toward the man's eye, but he was faster than she anticipated. Without warning, he ducked out of the way and snatched both her arms.

With surprising strength, he pushed her back, sending the woman stumbling. However, just before she could gain her balance, her foot came to a halt and she fell backwards. She didn't even register she fell over poor Gillian's body. Selah fell on her back, hitting her head on the hard floor.

She groaned, but before she could get up, a weight appeared on top of her, pinning her down. The Templar choked as meaty hands wrapped around her throat. She instinctively wrapped her fingers around the man's wrists, trying to pry him off, but his grip was iron. Selah gasped for air, only for her crushed windpipe to deny her oxygen, the lack of it already making her head spin. Her dagger had disappeared from her grip, lost somewhere in the struggle. But it was not her only weapon.

Selah flicked her wrist.

 _Slink!_

Her hidden blade slid from its confines with ease, only to sheathe itself in the man's neck. It was his turn to choke, he inhaled only for blood to fill his throat. His eyes went wide before they suddenly glazed over, dull. Suddenly the crushing grip on her throat loosened, but the weight on top of the Templar's torso doubled.

Not hesitating, Selah grabbed the shoulders of the body. With a heave, she pushed, throwing the weight off. Immediately she took a gasp of air as the pressure on her lungs—and her windpipe—was gone. The woman rolled over onto all fours, coughing and sputtering and shaking. That was far too close to comfort.

As oxygen returned to her brain, Selah tried to digest what had just happened. Gillian was dead. Her killer tried to murder her as well. But something was wrong. A drunk or an unstable man was likely to kill a courtesan without a thought, but the man was neither. Gillian was careful to avoid those kind of clients, anyway. Furthermore, why would he wait? It was almost like…

Selah widened her eyes in horror. She jumped to her feet and whirled around, only to see a flicker of movement before her eyes. Pain exploded in her skull, and the world went black.


	29. Part IV: Slander

**Slightly late update, but still the weekend so still counts. For those wondering, yes, Fillan McCarthy is officially dead. In this story, I had it where he was an Assassin, but his older sister, Gillian, wanted to become a Templar. To prove herself, she was assigned to kill him to indoctrinate into the Order.**

* * *

For a moment Connor seriously thought he had traveled to the wrong city. Boston was nothing like the magnificent stone village he saw after his fourteenth summer. It was barren and cold-filled with the red coats of regulars, treating the city as their own personal property. That was a given as the Assassin noticed them loitering on the porches of buildings he knew were not open to the public.

Clipper and Stephane were not exaggerating about the condition of the city. Connor had ordered them to flee, along with the rest of the Sons of Liberty and many other Patriot sympathizers, but the two men refused. Both insisted they were of better use to the Assassin as his spies. Connor could not argue against their loyalty, but still it filled him with concern.

As the teenager stalked the streets of Boston, his muscles were tensed and his senses were sharp. This was the first time he had visited the city since the Battle of Bunker Hill. He was alert for a single redcoat to remember him as the Patriot that cut down the men of the Royal Marines. None did, but Connor still kept eying them. Which ones of them were on the battlefield? Which one of them attacked Joseph Warren, hacking him until unrecognition? Connor sighed and tried to push the morbid thoughts away, remembering Sam Adams' words.

" _Nothing can be done for the dead,"_ the rebel leader had said. " _The best we can do is remember them, and ensure their death was not in vain."_

Connor balled his fists. Joseph gave his life for his comrades and his home. The oppression that the Mohawk's people suffered was the same kind the colonists suffered. Yes, the Assassin would not allow Joseph's death be in vain. He would ensure they all would be free.

"Beware of the White Death! Come for healing, leave in a box!"

Connor looked over to see a young boy, not even in his tenth summer and half the size of the Mohawk, standing on a box on a corner of the street. He held a newspaper over his head and his other hand cupped around his mouth. On the paper was a picture a man. Connor thought he saw the word "doctor" in bold letters, but the boy was tossing it around too much to properly read. White? Dr. White? Could that be who Warren and Prudence were looking for?

They were the ones that sent the Assassin into the marshall city in the first place. Prudence was with child, and she was expecting soon. Warren suggested a doctor they respected that was living in Boston. Connor, despite his reluctance to return, agreed to search for the man, if it meant not only Prudence's health and safety, but for everyone else's.

However, as he listened to the boy continue on with repeatedly putting "White" and "death" in the same sentence, the teenager wasn't so sure. He decided to near the young town crier.

"Are you talking about Dr. Lyle White?" Connor asked as he walked up. The little boy paused his yelling to look up at him even though he was standing on a makeshift podium. Although the Assassin was easily three times his height, he didn't seem fazed at all.

"That's right!" the crier cheered enthusiastically. "Dr. Death! Known to kill every patient he ever had."

Connor immediately knew it was a lie. It was obviously an exaggeration; not to mention that Warren and Prudence were living proof of the contrary. The teenager narrowed his eyes.

"Who is saying this?" he asked.

"Are you blind? It says right here," the boy accused, shoving the newspaper towards Connor as he pointed at a random line.

"But someone wrote that."

"That would be correct. And you can bet every word is true. The papers never lie!"

The Assassin knew from personal experience that was not always the case… He sighed and asked impatiently, "Do you know where I can find Dr. White? And who is posting these stories about him?"

"How would I know?" the boy retorted in a tone that Connor was sure his own mother would've slapped him for. "I just get the papers and do what I'm told and get paid for it. Take it to someone else."

"Fine. But you stop selling these lies."

"And why would I do that?"

A purse of coins materialized in Connor's hand, holding it to the boy's eyes. Automatically the crier's eyes became as wide as dinner plates. The boy didn't hesitate to take the purse and he packed up his belongings a second later, even rejecting a willing customer. Connor walked away, assured he had silenced a liar, but his stomach was still knotting. He was still no closer to finding Dr. White, and now he was curious why would someone slander his name.

Well, at least he had an idea where to start. Leaving guarded streets of Boston, the Assassin slipped into a printing store. Immediately the clicking sounds of gears and presses filled his ears as he was greeted by an overweight man working on a complex machine. The colonist gave him the briefest of glances.

"Ah, you again," the printer greeted in a flat tone. "Want me to alter the posters again?"

"No, that is not what I am here for," Connor replied. "I assume you are the one printing the stories about Dr. White?"

"What about it?"

"How much will I have to pay to make those stories stop?" the Assassin questioned as he neared the man, who went back to ignoring him. However, at his request, the printer sent him a bemused look.

"Well, if you can pay more than His Majesty's Army, I'll be more than willing," the man replied. Connor started.

"Why would the army be involved with such affairs?"

"Dunno," he answered. "But it's business. Not my job to pick the stories, especially if someone's paying."

"How about now?"

The printer—who had been fiddling with a contraption—looked up, only to find a purse of coins. It was much larger than the one the paper boy received. Immediately the man's eyes went wide.

"Y-you have a deal!" he stammered.

He straightened and took the coins as eagerly as Connor's first bribe. He immediately spilled the contents into his palm to count the coins, going back to ignoring the teenager's existence. However, the Assassin had not concluded his business.

"One more thing: where is this commander?"

* * *

Connor crouched in the bushes. Their leaves had turned pale and brown in the cooling weather, giving the perfect camouflage for the Assassin's ivory cloak. The same could not be said for the sentries that patrolled the marsh, the soldier's bright red coats contrasting greatly to the surrounding foliage. The Mohawk warrior peered past them to see cold, smooth walls of stone, towering over the water. The fort.

The compound looked forbidding, especially as guards stood vigilant from the top of the wall. Entering it would not be easy. But Connor was not one to back down from a challenge.

The hunter silently pulled his bow from his back, notching an arrow. He stayed perfectly still for thirty seconds, until a flash of red appeared ten feet in front of him. _Thwish._

There was a gag and the regular fell. The coast now clear, Connor took off from his hiding place, but stayed low and kept his bow in his hand. He ignored the body of the soldier, even though he knew if it was found, his mission would be ruined. However, it was unlikely the body would be noticed, as it was already sinking into the water of the marsh.

Connor came up to the fort without trouble. He was by the settlement's docks, which were covered by crates and supplies dropped off by passing ships, but yet to be properly organized. By the sheer amount, the Assassin had a guess it was for more than just the men stationed here. However, whoever placed the crates wasn't expecting a trained assassin to infiltrate the fort, as the gigantic pile created a convenient ramp right to the top of the wall.

The teenager scampered up the pile as easily as a mountain goat. He snatched the edge of the wall and buried his heels into the stone. He cautiously peered over the rim to see a single redcoat assessing some supplies, coming nearer, oblivious to Connor's presence. Past him, the Assassin saw figures of other soldiers patrolling, but none of them looked in his direction. He acted quickly.

With, impossible agility, the Mohawk warrior leaped onto the stone and lunged towards the lone sentry. The man did not have a chance to turn as Connor buried his hidden blade in the back of his neck. The body twitched and went still, crashing onto the ground. The action occurred behind a stack of boxes, unseen by anyone in the fort. The Assassin pressed the corpse against the crates, making it harder to notice. Unless a patrol came around.

Connor gritted his teeth, realizing he was short on time. He had to find the captain and get out, hopefully with White's location. This single man better be worth it. The teenager dared to peek out his head from his hiding spot, scanning the courtyard in the center of the settlement. There!

A man in an adorned red coat and stood before a group of soldiers, waving his hands as he gave some sort of lecture. Connor watched for a minute before the captain excused his subordinates. As the men dispersed, the leader walked away, heading towards one of the stone buildings. Conveniently the one closest to Connor.

The Assassin stayed still in his spot, ignoring the strain in his muscles, until the captain disappeared out of sight. It wasn't until he ensured the coast was clear that he dared to move. As quickly as he could, Connor leaped from the wall and onto the building, attaching himself below a windowsill of the second floor.

The boy flicked his wrist, ejecting his hidden blade, and he wedged it underneath the frame of the glass. As he did this, he glanced over his shoulder, only to notice a soldier making his rounds across the wall. Right now the man was looking out to sea, but his route would have him turn—towards Connor. The interloper worked faster, calculating he had seconds left. The lock wouldn't break.

 _Come on!_ the Assassin urged. He glanced again. Thankfully the man was taking his time with slow, careless strides, but even with that, he only had to take two more steps until the end of the wall.

Grinding his teeth, Connor gave the lock a violent jerk, just as a distinctive _click_ sounded. Finally! Without hesitation, the intruder pushed the window open and ducked inside, just as the soldier turned. The Assassin fell unceremoniously onto the floor and lay perfectly still. No shouts. No bells. No redcoats. He was safe.

He dared to breathe a relieved sigh as he slowly climbed to his feet. It was then he heard voices drifting up from below him, but they were too muffled to make out any words. It did not matter. On silent footsteps, Connor stalked to the edge of the room, pausing at a flight of a staircase, leading downstairs.

The Assassin closed his eyes, focusing. An instinct in the back of his mind stirred and the boy embraced it, so natural and yet so foreign at the same time. Connor opened his eyes to find the world cloaked in shadow. His senses mingled together, where he no longer just saw and no longer just heard. No, he could _feel_ his surroundings.

Beneath him, he could sense two figures. Their presence felt hostile, deadly—so fierce that his vision flashed crimson. Then suddenly one moved away and disappeared, back outside. Only one figure remained. The captain. He sat at his desk, writing over a piece of parchment.

Connor blinked and the world returned to normal, just as he climbed off the final step and onto the first floor. He peered into the room to see the captain's back to him. Perfect. Hidden blade unsheathed, the intruder's muscles were as tense as a cougar preparing to pounce. Connor closed the distance between them on silent footsteps. Almost—

"You think I don't know you're there, Assassin?" a smooth, feminine voice snarled.

Without warning, the captain snatched the wine bottle on the desk, at the same time rising and twisting towards Connor. The boy cried as the glass shattered against his head, but his hood protected him from shards embedding into his skin. The surprise attack sent the Assassin recoiling, but he did not fail to hear the sound of metal being removed from its sheath.

He ducked out of the way, just as the sword came for his throat. Acting quickly, he snatched the hilt of the blade and twisted, forcing it out of the the captain's hand. He ignored the weapon clattered onto the floor as the redcoat kneed Connor in the crotch. The Assassin hissed in pain, but stayed on his feet, even as a dagger came for his eye.

He brought up his arm to deflect the attack, only to hiss at the sharp edge sliced through his skin. He pushed the pain away as he snatched the captain's wrist. The warrior ducked underneath his opponent's arm as he maneuvered behind the man, all the while twisting the redcoat's arm. There was a cry of pain, cut off as Connor spun around, flinging the captain into the wall. The Assassin then pressed his weight against his prisoner. Then he saw the face.

"You are…" he gasped, only to trail off.

"What? A woman?" the captain spat, rolling her eyes. "Expecting something else, Assassin?"

To think Selah's eyes were hateful. The woman's furious black eyes dug into him like a dagger. Her rusty-brown hair was tied in a queue, but some of the strands fell out during the struggle. Connor stared at her a full second before shaking his head with a snort.

"Does not matter," he growled. "Why are the Templars after Lyle White?"

The captain was obviously a Templar, if she knew he was an Assassin. However, the woman didn't seem fazed by his demand.

"That traitor? We know he's been in contact with the Sons—and treats them without pay. Father has been trying to arrest him for months, but the damn doctor has deeper pockets than he seems. But it'll catch up him. He's as good as dead."

Connor narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

The Templar ignored his comment. "As much trouble as you've been causing, I expected you to be smarter. But then again, it was Selah that was sent to kill you, so I can see why you're not dead yet." When the Assassin just stared dumbly, the woman snapped, "Coming to assassinate me in the _middle_ of a fort? _Really_? You Assassins really are stupid."

"Enough of this. Where is White?"

To express his point, the boy raised a hand, unsheathing his hidden blade. The woman only sneered before suddenly opening her mouth. A high-pitched screech assaulted Connor's ears, making him flinch.

"GUARDS! GUARDS!"

So much for going unnoticed. Connor panicked as he heard yells just outside the door. He didn't notice it loosened his grip, allowing his prisoner to wrench an arm free and land a fist on his jaw. Although it ricocheted off harmlessly, it was enough to surprise the Assassin and force him to leap back in defensive. He had just put some distance between himself and the Templar when the door burst open, three guards streaming in.

"Captain Mallow! What is it?" one demanded, only to notice Connor. It certainly helped when Eleanor pointed in his direction.

"A rebel assassin! Kill him! Kill him!"

The guards didn't have to be told twice. Two charged for him while the first hung back, readying his musket. Connor ducked out of the way of one bayonet, just in time to grab the other. He twisted the weapon and thrusted towards its owner, sending the butt of the musket into the regular's chin. The head jerked back and the man loosened his grip, allowing the warrior to rip it from his hands. He whirled around, slamming it into the other one's gut.

Not waiting to watch him double over, Connor spun around… away from the main door and towards a closed window over the desk. Suddenly there was a clap of thunder, signalling the third redcoat had fired. The interloper instinctively ducked, only to feel the musket ball whizz by his head and impact the glass with an ear-piercing _crash_. Followed by another and a curse from Captain Mallow. Thank the Spirits they had terrible aim.

Connor grabbed a handful of parchments as he scampered onto the desk. In the same instant, he ducked his head and rammed into the broken window. The sharp sound of shattering glass and snapping wood deafened his hearing, only for his organs to suspend as he flew into the air. Then the ground came too quickly.

The Assassin's shoulder brutally slammed into the hard stone. He rolled into a crouch only to be greeted by a squadron of soldiers staring at him with wide eyes. The teenager instinctively froze, but then he heard Captain Mallow's screech from above.

"Do _not_ let him escape!" she ordered.

That brought the soldiers to life. Suddenly muskets materialized in their hands, aimed at the interloper. Then the clanging sound of a bell filled the air, followed by the yells of startled regulars. Connor realized he could not fight a whole fort by himself. Thankfully his body realized that as well.

Automatically he took in a sprint, barging past a pair of soldiers that tried to block his path. He leaped up a pile of cargo that led to the upper ramparts, only to run into an alerted sentry. The man looked startled, obviously not expecting Connor's presence, but nonetheless did not hesitate to send a bayonet in his direction.

It was already too late, as the Assassin leaped off the wall with outstretched arms. He landed in a clumsy roll, grunting on impact. He leaped to his feet and ran, disappearing into the marsh, leaving the madness of the Templar fort behind.

* * *

A dull ache reverberated in Selah's skull. She felt the edges of consciousness, but a part of her tried to push it away. Anything to make the pain go away. Eyes still closed, the woman furrowed her eyebrows.

It was then she felt something cold pressing against her, almost chilling her to the bones. That, and something hard. Finally Selah opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry and dark. Even as she blinked rapidly several times, it took several long moments for her vision to clear.

Cold, stone walls greeted her. What? Selah blinked and tried to shift, only her limbs to radiate with soreness. She pushed the discomfort away and twisted her arms underneath her. With a grunt, she lifted herself into a sitting position. She was in a dark room, making it hard to see her surroundings. The only light came from a narrow, horizontal window that was far too high for Selah to reach. It was barred, so it was not like she could use it for escape, anyway.

The room wasn't large-only big enough for her to take a few steps in each direction. As it was completely barren, not even a sleeping pad, save for a bucket in the corner. The scent of mildew and dust lingered in Selah's nostrils, making her tempted to hack in disgust.

The woman shakily rose to her feet. Immediately her head pounded in protest, making her clutch her head. Disorientation flooded over her, until suddenly the Templar remembered. Her heart skipped several beats as she saw the image of Gillian's dead body. Oh, God, Gillian…

Selah never favored her, and she never saw them being friends. Even though the seductress was one of Haytham's best spies, that meant nothing to her. However, Selah had come to her, and now the woman was dead because of it. They had used Gillian to get to her. Whoever "they" were. All the woman remembered was being attacked by that thug before being knocked out.

The Templar's instincts tingled. They were warning her of danger-a danger only she could sense. Selah's heart quickened. She needed to get out of here. Now.

The prisoner looked around wildly, noticing a metal door on one side of her cell. She approached it, and wasn't surprised to find it locked. Refusing to give up, Selah pressed her shoulder against it, applying all her weight as she shoved several times. The door reverberated at her exploits, but otherwise did not budge.

The woman chewed her lip, trying to think of how to open it. Then she heard the scream.

It was a high-pitched noise of agony. It didn't even sound human. Selah's stopped flipped and dozens of chills crawled up and down her spine. So startled and disturbed, the Templar leaped away from the door, planting herself on the opposite wall. Her instincts began to scream as well, clawing at her thoughts in attempt to replace her logic with her primal drive of survival.

The heavy _clank_ of a lock being released didn't help. She snapped her head to see the door handle moving. She didn't hesitate. As soon as a crack of light appeared, the warrior lunged.

Only for a crushing grip to appear on her wrist.

"As feisty as I remember you, little girl," a voice rumbled in a growl, ignoring her cry of pain.

Selah looked up and her eyes widened. The man before her was about the same height as Washington and as broad as Shay. He wore baggy clothing, in contrast to the tight trousers most wore. His trousers were made of faded fabric over leather clogs. His collared vest was made of the same material as his leggings, but were sleeveless, allowing his pale undershirt to be seen. It was folded back at his elbows, having the rest of his arms covered by leather gloves. A thick leather strap wrapped around his torso, holding a pair of deadly flintlocks.

The stranger had cold, dark brown eyes and his blond hair was cut short to his scalp, with a wild-looking beard that he poorly maintained. He glowered down at her, but Selah stayed, glaring back at him.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded.

The man smirked, cruelly. "I guess you wouldn't remember me."

His voice was lined with a brogue-thicker than Shay's but not as thick as Pitcairn's. It was deep and gravelly, like stones rolling over each other. Selah remained defiant.

"I've never met you," she insisted.

"So this is what you've become," the man grumbled. "I wouldn't be surprised if you forgot James Crawford as well."

Immediately Selah froze at the mention of the name. James Crawford. No, she didn't forget. Even now, she could still remember every detail of his face. How it looked like as he smiled up at her, even though it was covered in his own blood. How could she? He was the man that had trained her. Her mentor. He was the one that took her from the streets and took her in as his own. Her father.

"H-how do you know that name?" she questioned in a low voice, swallowing. The man's smile grew wider.

"Because I knew him," he answered. "I knew you, too, Selah."

Suddenly ice filled the woman's veins. She studied her captor's face, replacing it with one that was less rugged, younger. She imagined a man with a smaller stature, although by the slightest degree, and more, but wild hair. Yes, _that_ was the face she remembered. A brute of a man that posed as a simple carpenter, but used the same tools to demolish and gut his enemies.

John O'Brien.

"Y-you're…" Selah stuttered, "an Assassin."

* * *

 **And the plot thickens. For those wondering, John O'Brien and Liam O'Brian are not related in this story. One: I kinda feel like it would be irrelevant to John's character, and two: according to the wiki, they're names are spelled differently, so they are not related in the games.**


	30. Part IV: The Good Doctor

" _Was_ an Assassin," John O'Brien corrected.

Compared to James's other relationships, he and John were not close friends. However, O'Brien was James's main contact when it came to Boston. John knew the city like the back of his hand, and James once said it was because he built half of it. O'Brien not only knew the city, but once he got his hands on a building's blueprints, he could memorize the entire layout. Sometimes he didn't need it, as the carpenter could find his way around a house as if he owned it.

Talent with plans wasn't John's only specialty. Like all Assassins, he could kill before his victims had a chance to defend themselves. Selah had once seen him bash a man's skull with a sledgehammer before the man could work up a scream. The same man that had tried to stop the slave trade, but was silenced by the Brotherhood for interfering with their financial aid.

Selah gulped. The last time she had seen John O'Brien was before the Purge, when Assassins were being hunted like prey. She had figured he was dead. Especially since the ex-Assassin heard no word of him, for years.

"And last I remembered, you were a member of the Brotherhood," John observed, glowering at her. Selah blinked away her shock and glared defiantly at him.

"Not anymore," she hissed.

"So I see."

Suddenly O'Brien took a step forward. Despite meaning to uphold her brave charade, Selah backed away from the giant of a man. Her captor stopped his approach, but seemed amused by her skittishness. Selah snarled, realizing he was merely toying with her.

"Tell me, was it worth betraying your brothers?" O'Brien questioned.

"They betrayed me," the Templar hissed. "And don't think you can turn me. You're not the first one to try."

Her captor snorted at her statement. "I wasn't even going to. I know a Templar when I see one."

"Then what do you want with me?"

"You're going to deliver a message." Immediately Selah's skin crawled and she leaned away from her captor.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, but the man only shook his head.

"The Templars have gotten too comfortable being in control. That's the one thing this war is good for—stretching their numbers. And that little apprentice has been quite useful, too."

Selah knew he was referring to Connor. She tried to piece together his words. It was obvious he still had hatred for Templars—but why wasn't he with the Brotherhood? Or, whatever was left of it.

"Why don't you join him?" the woman asked. "I even hear Achilles is alive."

Another snort. O'Brien sneered as he said in a condescending tone, "Achilles is a broken and lame old man. Unfit for a true leader. His apprentice is just as weak."

Then Selah realized.

"You want to replace Achilles's Brotherhood," the ex-Assassin accused. To her surprise, O'Brien shook his head again.

"Close, but not quite," he rumbled. "I've come to realize the Brotherhood is flawed—like you have, Selah—but in a different way."

"What are talking about?"

"It wasn't only Achilles that was weak—but the Brotherhood's ideals. There can never be freedom as long as there's someone's in control. And killing someone in control does nothing. It's not long before someone else takes their place and everything starts all over again."

Selah only glared at his observation. "That's why order is the answer. There is no such thing as freedom. What you speak of is anarchy."

" _What I speak of_ ," O'Brien snapped, empathizing every word as he took another step forward, "cannot be done with a few deaths. Those in control must die along with all those that can replace them."

It was then Selah's eyes widened. Appalled, she took a step back, only to brush up against the stone wall. A jolt of panic coursed through her, but it was not because she was trapped.

"You're talking about—" she stammered, but O'Brien cut her off.

"Yes. Those Templars had the right idea. You do not change the world by killing one man. It's only by making rivers of _blood_..."

Selah's stomach rolled in disgust. She believed the Brotherhood was flawed, but not in _that_ way. Spilling useless blood would change nothing. It would only breed more hatred and continue the very conflict it was meant to end. ...But that did not stop the Templars from eradicating the Colonial Assassins, and then the Caribbean Assassins. Selah's skin crawled. She did nothing when the Colonial branch fell, and she had _helped_ destroy the Caribbean. The Templars had claimed victory.

Perhaps O'Brien's words held some truth… and if he really was convinced of such… Selah was filled with horror as she realized what he planned to do.

"You will never destroy the Order," the Templar spat. "Haytham will never—"

She was cut off as suddenly O'Brien grabbed her chin, cupping his palm underneath her face.

"Haytham's not _here_ , is he?" the man purred. "You wouldn't be in this mess in the first place, if it wasn't for him. He threw you out like a boy getting tired of his favorite toy."

The words stung more than Selah wanted. She had been Haytham's apprentice—his favorite. Now she could barely get him to speak with her. Maybe O'Brien had spies who had seen this. Maybe he was right, that— _no._

"You're lying!" Selah screeched.

In a blink of an eye, she swatted the brute's hand away and went to pounce, but O'Brien was expecting the move. As quickly as she acted, the bastard snatched her wrist—the same one as before. While Selah cried in pain at the abuse, he twisted her arm and spun her around. Pressing his weight against her, O'Brien pinned the woman to the wall, the rough texture scratching her cheek. Chills crawled across Selah's skin as she felt the man's hot breath on her ear.

"We'll just see how long it takes for Haytham to find you," he hissed in her ear, low and threatening. Selah gritted her teeth and tried to push against him, but the carpenter was far too strong. "Too bad it'll be the last thing he'll ever do."

Selah froze as her heart stopped. That was why she was here. She was bait.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," an accented voice spoke up.

What? Selah tried to glance at the door, but her awkward position only allowed her a glimpse of a figure. However it seemed O'Brien was satisfied, as he suddenly pushed off of her.

"No, Dr. Wolcott," he muttered.

Selah turned around to see the newcomer. It was a man about the same height as her. Perhaps shorter, as she noticed he was wearing heeled boots. However, he was stocky. The man had a full face and his shoulders seemed broad, but Selah could tell it was just because of added layering. He wore a crimson vest—which seemed too much like the color of blood—that went over his pitch-black trousers. A dark leather coat was over his clothing. The long sleeves were swallowed by gloves of the same material.

The stranger's face was pale and covered by dark, untrimmed whiskers. He wore wired, round spectacles over his brown eyes. His gaze was sharp and calculating, looking past O'Brien as he stared at Selah, eying her like a valuable piece of jewelry. The woman felt her skin crawling.

"Is this the woman you've been fussing over? She doesn't seem like much," the man snorted, scrunching up his face. He too had an accent. It sounded like English, but not as rich as Haytham's upper London accent.

"Oh, trust me, she's more troublesome than she looks," O'Brien replied. The man sent her a warning glare over his shoulder before continuing to lumber towards the door, ignoring her. He barged past the stranger as the newcomer took his place.

"I don't think we've met," the man said in a tone that sounded far too fake. "My name is Victor Wolcott. I believe you're Selah, correct?"

Instead of answering, the Templar only glared. To her surprise, Wolcott only nodded.

"Yes, you are certainly Selah," he commented. Suddenly the man whirled around to face O'Brien. "That reminds me, about our agreement…"

"I never agreed to anything," O'Brien growled, his tone having no room for refusal. However, Wolcott didn't seem to take the hint.

"I was promised a patient," he said stubbornly. Although he said it like a small boy, Selah found her stomach twisting. Patient? O'Brien only snorted at the comment.

"Have the boys pick someone up," the ex-Assassin ordered. "She stays."

"And if she causes trouble?"

Although the men were speaking like Selah didn't even exist, O'Brien finally glanced at her. Their eyes locked, his dark gaze filled with warning and hatred.

" _Then_ you can take care of her."

* * *

 _Captain Mallow,_

 _I have established contact with White's banker and have finished my interview with him. At first he was reluctant to go against his client's confidentiality, but a generous donation from the Order was enough to allow me access to White's statements. I discovered large sums of money have disappeared from his account. These transactions do not correspond with his ledgers, nor is it portional to a surgeon of his meager salary._

 _With this discovery, I have come to the conclusion that Lyle White is entrusted with another financial advisor. It will certainly explain his numerous evasions from arrest. As we cannot approach the doctor directly, I have found another solution._

 _Using old Johnson's contacts, I have successfully cleared out White's accounts. Not only will he be unable practice efficiently, but he will lack the funds to pay this advisor. If I am to come to a conclusion, judging by these methodical payments, I will not be surprised if the advisor wishes to collect the debt personally. If we are in luck, the Order will not have to squander any resources on a minor inconvenience._

 _Nonetheless, I should not have to tell you, Captain Mallow, that I want White taken care of. His practice is expanding beyond my original estimate and is interfering with my personal work and so our plans within the Order. I desire his death certificate upon my desk by the end of the week—whether by these miscreants he has foolishly allied with or by your father's command. I have his address listed below, in the chance you are forgetful of your duties. Do not disappoint me, or it will be more than just your rank in risk._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Benjamin Church_

Connor folded the letter and stuffed it into his coat. Church. Master Templar of the Inner Sanctum. The teenager only met him once, years ago at Martha's Vineyard. It seemed he took over the Order's finances after Johnson's death. But instead of concerning over a budget, the surgeon was using his new position to rid of competition.

It certainly explained why the Templars were so concerned over a simple doctor, but it still filled the Assassin with rage. Yet another example of their tyranny. He would deal with Church another time. Right now, it was the letter's other subject made him worry. Another financial advisor? Who could that be?

" _The damned doctor has deeper pockets than he seems,"_ Captain Mallow had said. " _But it'll catch up him. He's as good as dead."_

It seemed the Templars weren't the only ones after White. Connor had to find him. And soon.

The Assassin found himself in a decrepit alleyway, cloaked in shadow. It was out of sight of the street—and more importantly, soldiers. His experience in the fort and his new discovery proved none of them could be trusted. The teenager approached a pair of doors made of pale wood, but instead of being in the wall, they were in the _ground_.

Connor quickly glanced over each shoulder. The alleyway was completely barren. Assured the coast was clear, he quickly opened the cover, a gust of stale air and a dark abyss greeting him. The boy ducked inside and vanished from the light of the outside world.

The tunnels were in the same state as when he first traveled through them several years ago. Sam Adams had been his guide through the maze-like corridors, which allowed him to travel through Boston undetected. Just like now.

Earthen walls surrounded Connor, illuminated by the pool of his lantern's light. Beyond him was pitch-darkness, making him depend on memory more than anything. The ground beneath him was covered by loose soil, dust, and shallow puddles built up from years of water seeping through the ground. He occasionally saw flicker of movement in the edges of his light, usually accompanied by a startled squeak.

It seemed the rats were his only company down here. Once he swore he found one the size of a house cat. That, and the sounds of the city above that drifted down. Instead of assuring, the muffled noise echoed through the tunnels sounded like the moaning voices of spirits. More than once, he _swore_ he heard a noise that shared the same tunnel with him. He never found the source, but once he did spy a large man briskly walk past a tunnel. The two pretended not to notice one another, and Connor was reminded he was the not the only one to use these tunnels. They served the smugglers well.

Connor didn't know how long he traveled through the underbelly of Boston until he reached his destination. Sunlight filtered through a wooden cover, inviting after the ominous darkness that had surrounded the boy. The Assassin carefully pushed against it, unconsciously squinting as he stepped back onto the surface. Only to be greeted by voices.

"Please! Just give me another week! I'll have all the money, I swear!"

"You said that last week."

Connor instinctively fell into a crouch and stepped into the shadow of a fence. He cautiously poked his head around the edge to see the backyard of a two-story, but plain home. The barren yard was filled with men with ragged, leather clothing, all armed with either a pistol or a musket.

There were several of them, making a rough circle around another man. It was a short, scrawny man, shaking like a leaf as he balanced on all fours. His dark brown hair was mangy and his skin was pale, even for white standards. He wore wiry glasses over his brown eyes, but Connor noticed one of the lenses was cracked.

The stranger wore polished black shoes with white stockings that went over his pale pants. A blue coat wrapped around his torso, over an unbuttoned green vest, showing his white undershirt. His clothing was faded and dirty and disheveled. Either this man didn't care much for his appearance, or these men had been harassing him for a while.

"You have a debt to pay, doctor," one thug snarled, probably the leader.

"I'll pay it! I will! I will! Just please, give me some more time!"

"We gave you more than enough time."

The leader stalked away to a couple of men loitering at the edge of the circle. One was sitting on a crate, but jumped to his feet when his boss neared. Connor narrowed his eyes as the leader leaned down and snatched something, tossing it into the air and catching it easily. Looked like a liquor bottle.

"Now explain to me, Dr. White," the man said as he sauntered back towards the doctor. Connor's heart quickened at the mention of the name. "How is it you continue to fail to pay us, yet you have plenty of spare coin to indulge yourself with fine wine?" The leader then cockily took a swig of the drink, only to immediately gag and spit out the contents. With a disgusted look, he added, "Or whatever the hell that is."

Despite the comment, White was shaking in his boots, quite literally. "S-someone stole my money! I—"

Before he could explain further, the thug snorted and rolled his eyes.

"I've heard that before," he drawled.

"I'm telling the truth!" White wailed, tears streaming down his face. "Just one more week, and I'll have it back!"

"You know what, I'm tired of your damned excuses."

Without warning, the thug raised the bottle over his head, preparing to bring it down on White's. The doctor shrieked and raised his arm to defend himself, even though he knew it was futile. Suddenly the glass bottle shattered and an arrow appeared in the thug's hand. Apparently having low pain tolerance, he let out a bellowing yell. The other brigands were too busy staring at him, bewildered, that none of them noticed Connor rushing up to them.

That was until the Assassin tilted the head of one back and slit his throat with his tomahawk. The sound of ripping flesh and a gurgled scream finally caught the other's attention, but it too late. Connor dropped his victim and pounced on the next, burying the blade of his weapon into the man's chest.

By now the thugs knew they were under attack. Connor leaped to his feet, only to run into another man. The crook tried to shove against him with his musket, but the Mohawk warrior was stronger and held his ground. Then seeing movement in the corner of his eye, the Assassin broke the stalemate by twisting the musket and forcing his opponent towards him. Not expecting the move, the thug stumbled, allowing Connor to lock his arm around his neck, just as another miscreant shot a pistol.

The musket ball ripped into the man's heart instead of Connor's, like a shield. The teenager quickly discarded the dying man as he charged toward the shooter. The man hastily pulled out a dagger to defend himself, swiping it at the boy. The Assassin expertly rolled into a crouch behind the man before quickly twisting and burying his tomahawk in the thug's calf. He screamed as Connor jumped to his feet.

His opponent whirled around to face him, only to be greeted by a barrel of a pistol pointed at his chest. The man fell with a clap of thunder. Now only the leader remained. Connor spun around, only to freeze.

The leader was before him, his arm wrapped around White's chest and his other hand holding a sharp knife to the doctor's neck.

"Come any closer and the doc's good as dead!" the man snarled. Connor merely narrowed his eyes.

The thug was using White as a meat shield—much like the Assassin used one of the attackers. The doctor did not offer a fight as he stood stiff as a board, most likely fearing the blade keeping him at bay. He was smaller than his captor, but Connor was not familiar with hostage situations. Any attack would've been too risky. Then he had an idea.

The Assassin bit his lip and blew air. A sharp, high-pitched sound came out, spreading to the rooftops above.

Then silence.

The leader showed a bemused look before he looked around, only to see the unmoving bodies of his former comrades. He put on a brave charade, but Connor could hear the shaking in his voice. "You think I'm scared of ya?"

The Assassin took a step forward like a stalking predator. "You will not leave this place alive," the warrior threatened in a low tone. "Let him go."

The man gave a mirthless laugh. "If that's the case, then why should I?" He pressed the knife to his prisoner's throat, provoking a strangled cry. "Shut up! You brought all this on in the first place!"

"You brought this upon yourself," Connor corrected. "Why are you doing this?"

"We all have our orders from the Bossman."

"And who is that?"

"You know, I think you're asking too many questions."

Suddenly the captor's arm tensed and he twisted his blade. Connor flinched, bracing to attack, but he never had the chance.

Suddenly there was a _crack_ and the thug screamed. Both he and White fell, the doctor landing on all fours while the mercenary fell sprawled on his back, unmoving. White was coughing and gasping, oblivious to Connor nearing him until the Assassin offered a hand.

"Lyle White?" the boy asked.

"Ugh, y-yes?" the doctor replied.

"You are certainly a hard man to find."

"Apparently not hard enough," the man commented as he took his savior's hand, only to give a squeak when Mohawk warrior pulled him up. However, White quickly acted composed when he straightened and nodded. Assured that the man was unharmed, Connor turned just as another figure sauntered towards them.

"You took your time," Connor commented.

"Sorry, was visiting the market," Clipper replied, placing his rifle on his shoulder. He looked around at Connor's work, unfazed. "Seems I missed quite a party."

"Do not fear, we still have the honored guest."

The pair turned around, only to see White unbalanced on his legs, stumbling and swaying as if he was on a rowboat. He snatched a fallen liquor bottle, giving it a quick sniff before cocking his head back and downing it. Connor's heart sank as he realized the cause for the doctor's behavior, and why he could barely defend himself. He was _drunk_.

The Assassin exchanged glances with Clipper, only for his apprentice to raise his eyebrows and shrug. Connor resisted a sigh as he neared the doctor again.

"Dr. White, it is not safe here," he said. "Is there somewhere else you can stay?"

"No, not since those damned lobsters closed my shop," White slurred, bitterness lining his tone. "Not that it will help. They'll find me one way or another."

Connor wondered if "they" were the British or the mercenaries, but he supposed it didn't matter. The doctor took another long swig of his drink. Clipper's words suddenly interrupted the teenager's thoughts.

"We can take him to Stephane's," the boy offered. "No one will look there."

Connor nodded in agreement. He walked over to White, taking the man's arm just as he reached for another bottle. Ignoring the doctor's protests, the Assassin dragged him away as Clipper led the way.


	31. Part IV: The Tunnels

**Okay, we're officially all caught up with my previous version. Starting with this chapter, everything is brand new.**

 **Yes, for those who read Fallen Eagle before, I know I hardly changed anything. This was more of a revision than an actual rewrite. But to me reposting it has made a big difference. I felt as though some scenes needed to be expanded and a couple chapters I was plain unhappy with. Furthermore, reading over it, I (by that I mean my** _ **awesome**_ **beta reader) have found numerous typos. Rather than replace chapter by chapter, I prefered a clean slate.**

 **Also why I chose to take so long (a whole year, wow) to post a new story, was because I simply didn't know what I wanted to do with Fallen Eagle. I lost inspiration and didn't know how to end it, and it wasn't fair to you guys to upload half-hearted chapters. But now that I have reread and rethought this adventure, along with all the amazing reviews, I know how I want to continue the story.**

 **That said, this will be the last arc for Fallen Eagle. After this chapter, there will only be a few (though emotional and action-packed) chapters remaining. Since most of them aren't finished yet, I will change the update schedule to every other weekend. I really hope you guys enjoy and thank you so much for all the support!**

* * *

Connor quickly realized their idea of guiding a drunken doctor to a safe location wasn't the wisest choice. It meant escorting the most wanted man in Boston through a marshall city, filled with soldiers whom would gladly shoot him on sight. So, much to Dr. White's great reluctance, they slipped back into the tunnels.

"I hate tight places," Dr. White complained.

"Not much further," Connor assured.

"Are you certain? Surely we can cut through the city. There should be no problem in the back alleyways."

"This is faster," Clipper insisted. Connor noticed the boy visibly strained not to roll his eyes.

"I'm just saying—"

"Sh!" Connor hushed, pausing in front of the group.

"What? My shoes are getting soiled…" Dr. White continued to whine. Connor stiffened.

"Be quiet."

Clipper obeyed by halting in his spot while the doctor just stared in confusion. During the following silence, Connor sharpened his hearing. At first he thought he imagined it. Then he thought it was another trick of the underground, the earth morphing the sounds from above. Then he heard it.

It wasn't morphed or muffled or distant. It was just ahead of them, just around the next corner. There was an aggressive, harsh voice, but it wasn't alone. A clear voice, usually strong, but now sounded meek in the darkness of the tunnels. Connor's heart stopped. What was _he doing_ here?

"Please, I don't want any trouble," Sam Adams's voice drifted, pleading.

"What do you _do_ here?" a deep voice demanded again. It lacked any familiar accent, but the English was broken, as if the speaker did not know the language.

"I would answer him," another voice spoke up. Another strange accent. "The Bear does seem to be in a rather sour mood. Well, more so than usual."

"If you would just listen to me, I can ex—" Adams started, only to be cut off by a loud thud and there was a cry of pain.

Waving to Dr. White to stay behind, the two boys crept forward, but hurriedly. Connor took the lead and pressed his back to the wall, ducking his head around the corner.

It was certainly a smuggler's cache—a hole of a room dug into the tunnels that smugglers used to hide their bounty. Connor had found a few—either guarded by thugs (the boy suspected they _lived_ there) or boobytrapped. Like most, this one was filled with crates of all different sizes, stacked into the haphazard piles. A couple even reached the earthen ceiling.

Sure enough, Connor saw Sam Adams, dressed in his favorite blue coat, on all fours, whimpering. There was a speckle of blood on the ground, underneath his face. There were two men standing over him—both of them interesting characters.

One closest to him was a tall, scrawny man. He wore a sickly green coat that reached all the way to his heels, his black leather boots just poking out of the hem. Black leather gloves covered his entire forearm, swallowing the long sleeves of his shirt. The man's face was a dark tan color with aged wrinkles, interrupted by a thin black goatee on his chin. His black hair was shaved close to his head. The man's lips were curled in a smirk as green eyes looked upon Adams with a strange sparkle.

The other figure was even more opposing. He was twice as large as his companion and certainly rivaled Connor's bulk. While the first showed no skin except for his leathery face, this one hardly wore any clothing. Leather moccasins reached up his calf to end at dark trousers. A quilt decorated with designs Connor never seen before wrapped around the man's legs, with a sash made of fur keeping it in place. The sash was the only thing covered the man's torso—the rest of it was rugged skin, revealing hard toned muscles underneath strange tattoos. Most of his hair had been shaved bald—just enough remaining to make a braid intertwined with feathers.

A Spaniard and a native warrior, together in a smuggler's cache. Interrogating Sam Adams, leader of the Sons of Liberty. Connor had been convinced he had seen everything.

"Perhaps we should just kill him," the Spaniard mused. "O'Brien does not know all. In fact, I assume he would be pleased to hear there is one less sinner in this world."

"No," the native—not Iroquois, but Connor had no idea of what tribe—refused. "We take."

"Hmm… then Wolcott will be pleased. Though… he takes too long to clean away filth."

"F-filth?" Adams stammered from his pitiful position on the floor.

"Ah, _sí_ , you are one of the ignorant." The Spaniard calmly knelt down next to the rebel leader. Suddenly there was a sharp sound and a needle-like sword appeared under Adams' chin. He trembled, but did not dare to move. "This world is full of filth—sinners who disobey the word of God and soil His creation. So God must rid of these sinners. Plague, famine, disaster, war—they are not tragedies, but _cleansings_." Suddenly the Spaniard's grin widened, revealing crooked teeth in a sadistic smile. "He tells me this. And I, Federico Perez, am His _instrument_."

Adams's eyes went wide. "Y-you're mad!"

Connor agreed. He never understood Christianity, despite Achilles attempts to tutor (though not convert) him. It differed too greatly from his own people's spirits and it made no sense to the point it was _boring_. But despite the native's lack of knowledge of the subject, he knew this preacher had taken it so far to the point of insanity.

Apparently the tribesman had little interest of the subject as well, as he snapped, "Enough talk. We take!"

"God commands his death," the Spaniard argued calmly.

The tribesman glared and the preacher met it in a bored gaze. Poor Adams trembled in between them, no doubt fearing his fate. His eyes flickered around in attempt to find a way to escape, only to meet Connor's gaze. The rebel leader gasped, unable to silence his relief. The preacher glanced down at the noise.

" _Qué_?" he asked. When Adams did not answer, the man followed his gaze. Connor slipped away too late. The Spaniard's cold tone rose to a sharp yell. " _Bastardo_!"

Neither of the thugs had a chance to react as Clipper's rifle took Connor's place. In the confined space of the tunnels, the thunder was _deafening_. Loud enough the preacher flinched rather than ducked. The ball buried in his heart and he fell with a scream.

The tribesman, the Bear, roared in fury. Suddenly a wooden war club appeared in his hand, raised over his head. Adams wailed and tried to scurry away as his captor brought the weapon down.

Connor leaped from his hiding place and closed the distance, tackling the rival native to the ground. The Assassin attempted to settle his weight on his opponent to keep him pinned, but the Bear was quick to recover. Connor's vision flashed white and pain exploded across his forehead as a rock-hard fist was delivered to his temple. The Assassin reeled back, his head spinning, allowing the Bear to bring up his legs and slam them to his chest. The Mohawk went flying back, landing hard on the stone floor.

"What the hell is this bastard?!" Clipper demanded, somewhere above him. Connor only moaned.

There was another clap of thunder just as there was a curse. Connor looked up to see the native had snatched Clipper's rifle and pointed it to the ceiling. At the same time, the Bear landed a fist, just as powerful, to Clipper's sternum. The boy gagged in pain and was tossed away like a ragdoll.

Just as suddenly, there was a desperate yell and Adams came into view. He was wielding a plank of wood (Connor had no idea where that came from) like the Bear's war club. The rebel leader sent it to the stranger's head, only for the native to swing his war club around and slammed into Adams's arm. There was a loud _crack_ and the man yowled.

By now Connor's double vision merged back into one. Acting quickly, he struck a leg out, sending his heel into the Bear's shin. There was a roar and the man stumbled, but didn't fall. But gave enough time for Connor to jump to his feet and put distance between them. The Assassin unsheathed his hidden blades.

"You are not from these lands," Connor accused.

"West," the Bear merely answered.

"Does your village know you murder?"

"Brother banish I. Pawnee is not home."

An exiled warrior. He must have been mad, for his own brother to send him to the East. Connor would have to put him down.

The Assassin charged. He saw the war club swing for his head. Instinctively, he ducked beneath the blow and sliced his blade across the Bear's bare ribcage. There was only a growl as hot blood gushed out. Connor tried to position behind his opponent, only for the rival native to twist around and swing again. The Mohawk warrior awkwardly had to lean backwards to avoid the attack.

Connor couldn't let the Bear strike him with that war club. If it met his ribs or his head, he would be finished. So the Assassin dodged attack after attack, the Bear letting out deep, feral growls just like his namesake.

The native was all offense, no defense. It allowed for an opening as Connor struck forward, extending his hidden blade. It buried into the Pawnee's chest. He roared with fury and agony. The Mohawk didn't expect what happened next.

Suddenly agony once again exploded across his skull as a solid object connected with the side of his head. Connor was sent to the ground, seeing stars and his head spinning. He tasted bile in his mouth. The Assassin tried to move, only for his body to feel like lead. He merely rolled onto his back, only to see the Pawnee warrior above him, war club in hand.

"You die!" the Bear snarled.

A dagger buried in his skull.

The beast's body went rigid. Gravity eventually captured the corpse, having it fall like a dead tree and landing with a thud. Connor's eyes went rigid. What in the world? Not questioning the intervention of the Spirits, Connor moaned as he cradled his head in his hand. It felt like he was on the lower deck of the _Aquila_.

"Need a hand, lad?" a voice spoke above him.

The Assassin glanced up to movement. Still high from adrenaline, he almost lashed out, but his pounding head kept him in place. Even though, he started when something moved into his vision. It took him to recognize it as a pale white hand. The Mohawk warrior wanted to swat it away, until reason got the better of him.

He took and shifted his weight to his knees. Though Connor brought himself up, the owner of the hand still gave a groan of effort. Definitely a man. Once the Assassin got to his feet, the hand shifted to his shoulder, keeping him steady until the world stopped swaying. Once it did, he got a good look at his savior.

They were about the same height, however Connor noticed the man seemed a few years older. He had reddish-brown hair, almost the color of rust, and clear blue eyes. His skin was fair, but not as blanch as White's.

The stranger wore pitch-black trousers over polished leather shoes. His coat was just as dark and covered his arms, rolling back at the wrists. The coat had no buttons, instead having white fabric over his torso. A red sash was tied around his waist, similar to Connor's. A broad-rimmed hat hung on his back from a string wrapping around his neck, but it was thin enough not to cause discomfort.

Well, he didn't look like a madman. Not a smuggler, either. But he had no business being in such a place, either. Connor couldn't help but regard him with suspicion, even though the man was wearing a broad smile. The stranger looked the boy up and down, but not in a hostile way.

"So you must be the lad," the man greeted. "Neighborhood could use more men of action like yourself."

Connor paused with a start. This man had heard of him? How? Was he really causing so much attention? Lead settled in the boy's stomach. He had feared that his actions across the years had caused a stir. Even George Washington, a man he had never met before, knew who he was, and now this man. The Assassin made a silent vow to never allow Achilles catch wind, or the old man would have a fit.

Connor swallowed and introduced lamely, "My name is Connor."

"That's a lovely name for a man from Wales," the man scoffed as he paused a respectable distance from him. After quickly scanning his gaze up and down the boy, he asked, "What's your _real_ name?"

Connor swallowed thickly. "Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"A strong name—you should use it. Mine's Duncan—plain as they come."

Connor was caught off guard. Duncan spoke as easily as if they were meeting in a tavern, not in the shadowed tunnels, with men they had just killed a few feet away. The ground was already turning red from their spilled blood. Clipper was leaning on a crate, holding his abused chest, but he could stand. Adams, meanwhile, was back on the floor, cradling his wounded arm. His nose was bent at an odd angle, a trail of blood coming from his nostril.

The fight was short, but bloody. If only they had—

"I-is everything alright?" a timid voice called from outside the cache.

 _White_. Connor had been so caught up in the fight, he completely forgotten the doctor was with them. The man was peeking around the corner, only for his eyes to widen at the sight of the two dead men and everyone's exhausted states.

"By God!" Dr. White exclaimed.

"It seems your services are required," Connor stated dryly, hoping the man had sobered enough to work properly.

"Not here, though," Duncan spoke up, getting Connor's attention. "Could be more still around."

The Assassin nodded his agreement. "We have somewhere to stay."

The stranger nodded his approval, but did not move. Because he knew it was not an invitation. Connor regarded him again. He couldn't help the old habit of suspicion, which surfaced every time he met a stranger, but the man had saved not only his life, but everyone else's. The teenager owed Duncan his life. Oh, Achilles would _kill_ him for this.

"Come, we will need the extra hand," Connor said to him.

Duncan raised his eyebrows in surprise, not expecting the change of heart, but said nothing and nodded. He crossed the room, stepping over the Bear's body, to assist Adams to his feet. With that, the group fled to lick their wounds.

* * *

It wasn't a surprise that Stephane was at the Bunch-of-Grapes Tavern when they arrived, and Connor was relieved.

" _Sacré Dieu_! What happened?!" Stephane exclaimed, dropping wine-filled tankard to come to their aid.

Connor could see how they looked like a sorry group, trudging into his tavern unannounced (from the trapdoor in the basement, no less). But they had recovered from their injuries somewhat. Clipper could finally stand up straight and Adams's nose had stopped bleeding, but Dr. White confirmed that his nose and arm were broken. The excitement seemed to bring the doctor to his senses somewhat, as he only tripped a couple more times, rather than his sways from before. Their newfound friend, Duncan, was unharmed. It seemed only Connor had poor balance.

Every time the boy tried to take a step, the world panned and he stumbled. Or even when he focused, his leg refused to obey his command. So it was natural for Stephane to be confused as the Assassin staggered in, Duncan supporting his weight. Swallowing his pride, the teenager allowed his friends to guide him to the nearest chair.

"Bandits, in the tunnels," Connor explained as he sat down.

"Those were no bandits," Clipper retorted, pulling out a chair for himself and setting down his rifle. Connor looked to Adams. Dr. White was already checking the man's arm, judging he had suffered the worst.

"British spies?" the Assassin inquired.

"Not like any I've met," Adams replied. "Besides, I would think the authorities would know who I am by now."

Clipper's eyebrows shot up. "You're the most wanted man in _America_ , and they didn't know you?"

Adams merely shook his head and shrugged. There was a clanking sound from the bar.

"Well, if they were living in the ground, no wonder, eh?" Stephane mocked merily, pulling out several tankards and filling them with wine. If Connor wasn't trying to hold down his last meal, he would have laughed at his friend's priorities. Instead, he continued with more pressing matters.

"What are you doing in Boston, Adams?" he asked. "The soldiers have orders kill you on sight."

"Well, I hope not," Adams replied. "That would interfere with my plans for spying."

Connor just blinked. How could he say such a thing nonchalantly?

"Spying? For what?" the Assassin demanded.

"The Continental Army, of course!" Adams answered. "General Washington is on his way as we speak!"

 _What_? George Washington was coming _here_? Then the teenager registered that the man had said "general." Then that the meant…

"The Patriots plan to attack Boston?!" the boy gasped.

"Ha!" Stephane laughed triumphantly, slapping the counter. "It's about time!"

"Besiege, is a more proper term," Adam corrected calmly.

"You've been bombarding the city for months!" Connor exclaimed.

"And it's about time we bring an end to it."

Connor couldn't help it. A flare of anger welled up in his chest and he balled his fists. Suddenly the wooden tavern around him was replaced by stone. The acidic smell of smoke filled his nostrils and he wanted to purge then and there, remembering the smell of death as he had looked upon countless bodies.

"What about _Charleston_?" he challenged. "The city was _destroyed_."

The Continental Army had _lost_. If they couldn't even seize the small town across the river, how would they capture one of the largest cities in the Colonies? One that was _teeming_ with British soldiers. So many had already died in vain. Connor couldn't allow any more fruitless deaths to happen. Adams's countenance turned grim.

"A tragedy we vow not to make again," the rebel leader vowed. "Why it is utmost importance we know what we are up against."

"A city full of redcoats is what you're up against," Clipper comment grimly.

"And they are prepared to take more," Connor added.

"I beg your pardon?" Adams demanded, cocking an eyebrow.

"There's a whole fort full of soldiers and supplies. I believe they plan to march soon."

"How can you be certain?"

"I saw them training."

Connor remembered the captain—Captain Mallow—inspecting _her_ men with a critical eye, as they lined up before her in shooting formations. All the while, she was using her Templar ties to ensure complete control over the city. He didn't think anything of it at the time, but now it was too coincidental. The British were plotting a move. And the Templars were backing them.

Adams opened his mouth to reply, only to let out a loud wail. Connor cringed as once again a sharp _crack_ came from his arm.

"There we are," Dr. White grunted. "Now all I have to do is—"

Before he finished his sentence, he took a hold of Adams's crooked nose. Before the Son could protest, another sharp sound and a whimper of pain. Stephane appeared by his side and offered him a drink. Adams downed it. When he finished, he went on as nothing had happened, despite there was now a trail of sweat on his brow.

"Then it's more dire than I thought," the rebel leader sighed. "We must attack sooner than expected. Preferably that fort, if possible."

"And how do you plan that?" Clipper cut in. "You aren't using the tunnels, that's for sure."

"You won't be using the streets, either," a voice added. A voice that had yet taken part in the conversation. All heads turned to see their guest, Duncan Little. He was sitting at the bar away from the group, as he was the only one unharmed.

"What do you mean?" the teenager asked.

"Gangs. They've been terrorizing the good people of Boston and the soldiers haven't done a damned thing."

 _Too busy with the war effort,_ Connor realized. Especially now that they planned to march against the rebel forces. "How long have these 'gangs' been around?"

"They've been here longer than I have, that's for sure," Duncan grumbled. "Probably since the Seven Years' War. They were quiet for a while—I didn't even hear of them for years. But around the time the war began, they started up again."

"How have you come to know of this, friend?" Adams asked.

"Because they tried to rob me, and I think you can guess what my answer was. When I looked into it, I found I wasn't their only victim, and the authorities were doing sod all." Duncan shrugged. "So I decided to take matters in my own hands. Sometimes to change things you gotta do it yourself. This infernal gang needs to be stopped."

"You seem to know what you are doing," Connor observed, remembering what happened in the tunnels.

"Not by choice, that's for sure. I rather avoid these sort of outcomes, but I've come to learn you need more than a prayer to God."

A vigilante, then. Not what Connor was expecting, but he was the last person to judge the actions of another. Connor knew all too well what that was like taking matters into his own hands. Such beliefs made him an Assassin.

"So I presume you this is what led you into the tunnels?" Stephane asked.

Duncan nodded in confirmation. "That's right. I've come to the realization that taking out just some local thugs won't solve our problem. We have to find who's orchestrating this ugly symphony."

"Any leads? Connor asked.

"I'm close. But something's got people spooked. I believe it's something beyond the usual gang stuff."

Stephane and Connor exchanged glances.

"Can you elaborate?" the teenager requested.

"Usually gangs pay or threaten people to stay quiet," Duncan explained. "They have quite a myriad of ways to do it. But… I've spoken to friends that shouldn't be in trouble, but they simply tell they don't want to get involved and they disappear. Like they know something I don't and know they'll be caught if they help me."

Now Connor narrowed his eyes. He didn't know much about these "gangs," but it sounded like they had eyes and ears. Enough to prevent the people from turning against them. The Assassin could only think of one entity capable of such.

The Templars.

Judging by the solemn look on Stephane, the Mohawk had a feeling the Frenchman had come to the same conclusion.

"We are at your command," the chef vowed. "What is it you intend?"

It was then Duncan looked over the group, finding he had everyone's attention.

"Word on the street is that they have a cache of their spoils by the docks," he said. "Maybe we might find something there."

"Perhaps we shall pay them a visit."

Duncan nodded. "It won't be easy. The docks are heavily guarded. We won't be able to just walk in and ask around."

"What do you intend?" Connor spoke up, knowing the man was up to something.

"We fight fire with fire. We need a gang—a gang of our own."

The Mohawk turned to his friend beside him. "Stephane, you have friends in the city, correct?"

" _Oui_ ," the Frenchman confirmed with a nod.

"I have some as well," Duncan added. "We're not the only ones tired of these brutes." He looked between his two accomplices. "Shall we, then?"

* * *

How long had it been? Two days? Three? More? It was impossible to tell the time. The only thing Selah had to go on was her meals. It was a slob of something—Selah didn't even know. She gagged the first time she dared to try it. Eating it was a chore, not a pleasure. Nonetheless, she calculated the time between meals. They were few and far between, but at regular intervals. Two meals a day, she realized.

Selah slept for the most part, unable to find anything else to do. When she was awake, she would pace her cell like a caged animal, trying to find any promise of escape. There was none.

The rest of her time she stewed in hopelessness. First she was captured by the Templars, then by the Caribbean Assassins, now by madmen. And after months of trying to redeem herself, she had dug herself into a deeper hole. Either she had terrible luck, or according to Shay's ideology, she must be terrible at making it.

Did Haytham even notice she was missing? Shay? Did anyone? Were they looking for her? Or was she forgotten, as easily as William and John? Who else had died, while she was stuck here? Those questions and many more pessimistic ones swam through her head and it was hard to shut them out, if she was successful at all.

It wasn't reassuring when Selah found her ring was missing. The lost weight made her feeling strangely naked, even more vulnerable. She wouldn't put past O'Brien taking it just to torture her further. Or maybe she had somehow lost it in the fight, where she was kidnapped. The only thing she was certain of, was that she was not alone.

Sometimes she would hear screams echoing from beyond her door, either in fear or pain, or both. Other times she would hear moans and whines, only to be silenced by the harsh voice of guards. So she wasn't the only captive. A prison, then? Where?

Had she been locked in the city prison, surely the Templars would've known. No, she was somewhere else entirely. O'Brien's personal little prison, to throw anyone he pleased. But as Selah thought about it, maybe O'Brien wasn't the warden.

Wolcott.

She had heard his shouts as he stormed past her door. There was even a couple times she woke up to see the man looming over her, only to walk out without a word. Unsettling was the least way to describe it. Selah closed her eyes.

" _Ah, let me go! Let me go!" she cried._

" _Well, well, so a street rat thinks she can eat off our plates, eh?" the redcoat sneered. She cried again as he pulled her hair and ripped the piece of bread from her hands. "It's not nice to steal, little girl."_

" _I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"_

 _She was sobbing uncontrollably. Why were they hurting her? She didn't mean to! She was just so hungry!_

" _I never expected the King's men to be low enough to harass a child," a voice of authority suddenly drawled. "Then again, cowards never fight men their own size."_

" _Who the bloody he—"_

 _The word was cut off with a strange sound. The tug on her hair disappeared. Followed by several gasps and more strange sounds._

 _She opened her puffy eyes, only to have her vision blurred by tears. She only saw a broad silhouette standing over her. Suddenly a pressure was on her ribs and the ground disappeared from her feet. The girl let out another wail._

" _Sh, sh, sh," a comforting voice soothed. "It's alright now. Don't cry. No one's going to hurt you anymore."_

 _Her face was buried in something soft and hard as strong arms were wrapped around her. She ignored the voice as she continued to cry, even as she was rocked comfortingly._

" _Come now, Selah, you're a strong little girl," the voice soothed._

 _Selah. Her name was Selah. Somehow the word stifled her sobs. She looked up to see a kind face._

" _How do you know my name?" she asked in her small voice. The kind face smiled._

" _Would you like to come home with me, Selah?" James asked._

Selah opened her eyes. That was the day she met James. The day she joined the Assassins. She fought and trained and learned to never allow her enemies bully her ever again. She had joined the Templars to protect the Order—her family. So many were dead, because of her. And she would not let it be in vain.

The Templar balled her fists. _No_. She wouldn't let O'Brien win. She would kill him. She would protect those precious to her.

* * *

 **Character spamming: seeing how many characters you can shove into one chapter**

 **Phew! Long chapter. The two multiplayer characters in this chapter were Kuruk (the Bear) and Federico Perez (the Preacher), as I decided to use them rather than faceless thugs. And yep, I finally bring in Duncan Little, the last of the Boston Assassins, into the group and bring back Adams (because yes, he is an important character).**


	32. Part IV: Escape

**Here's how writing this chapter went: I've got a lot to cover, so I'm to going cram as much as possible in this chapter! *ten pages and 5,000 words later and only covered half* Well, then, I'm just going to have to save the rest for the next one.**

* * *

"I do not like this, _mon amie_ ," Stephane complained. "How do you know this—er, vigilante—can be trusted? For all we know, he is a Templar spy."

"I do not believe that is the case, Stephane," Connor argued calmly. "He seemed a man of justice. I remembered you were the same when we first met, and I trusted you."

"I suppose you have a point."

Connor couldn't blame his friend for being concerned. It had been two days since they met their new ally and they had seen very little of him. When Stephane suspiciously asked him, Duncan merely said he was "meeting with friends." The Frenchman couldn't question him further, considering he had been doing the same thing. It wasn't until a late afternoon that the recruits agreed they were ready.

Dusk had fallen by the time the pair had reached the docks. The blue sky had turned into a dark hue and the once white clouds had become dark shadows. The sun had just sunk beneath the distant land, lighting the horizon with a great inferno.

Connor just hoped Duncan and Clipper were close by. Sam Adams was disappointed when he was told he could not accompany them, as he was used to leading mobs and rallies, but the Assassins couldn't afford it. All it took was for one soldier to recognize him and sound the alarm, and then the whole city would be after them. But as the rebel leader judged the tunnels were still not safe (and Dr. White's coaxing that he needed rest), he decided to stay behind.

"To hold the fort," he had said, trying to defend his pride.

Connor stopped his train of thought to focus on what was ahead of them. A group of guards wore tattered clothing, armed with muskets as they stood vigil in a line, cutting off a stone pier behind them. Connor remembered the amount of cargo he had seen at the military fort, how it was meant to supply an entire army for the war effort. That paled in comparison of the amount of supplies filling the pier. And all of it was stolen.

It filled Connor with rage. Templars. All they did was take and take and take. Their tyranny over these streets ended today.

Finally the guards noticed them. Connor tried to keep his stride powerful and his face impassive, his partner doing likewise. Though, the Mohawk warrior noticed Stephane had to quicken his pace to keep up. Taking in the Mohawk's imposing form, they stiffened with alertness. One stepped forward with a shout.

"Halt! No one comes through here!" he snapped.

"We are going to change that," Stephane retorted as the pair paused.

"Leave," Connor growled in a low and dangerous tone, although he was no good with authority, apparently unlike his father. "And we'll allow you to live."

The guards exchanged glances before snickering.

"And who are you to tell us what to do?" the first guard challenged. "These streets are ours."

"Not anymore," Stephane rebuked.

"Oh, and what are you going to do about it?"

The two Assassin exchanged glances. Stephane nodded. The man turned around with a sharp whistle, raising a hand above his head.

Just like they planned, Duncan stepped out of his hiding place, a musket in hand. His countenance was solemn as he approached them. More figures stepped out of the shadows. There were men dressed in ratty clothes to ones in elaborate coats, standing beside women in dresses and trousers. An array of weapons floated over the crowd. Pitchforks, swords, clubs, pistols, and several others the native couldn't hope to describe. They were the people that had been impressed by the gang's tyranny, and wanted justice.

Connor turned back around with a victorious smirk. The guards had paled at the angry mob before them, but the first one suddenly smirked.

"You think you're the only one with a group?" he snapped. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out piercing whistle.

Instantly more gangsters materialized on the pier, stalking forward with an armory of their own. Axes, muskets, knives… While the mob's eyes burned with determination and hatred, the gangster's gazes gleamed maniacally, baying for blood. Meanwhile, the guard's grin was sadistic.

"You think you still have a chance against us, you son of a b—" he taunted, only to be cut off by a sharp crack. Brain matter flew through the air as his head snapped backward. The man crumpled into a pile of twisted limbs. Clipper was in position. Good.

There was a full second of silence before there was a reaction.

Connor's newfound gang let out roars of anger and challenge. As one, they surged forward and the criminal gang followed suit. The two sides crashed into each like two opposing tidal waves.

Connor had just enough time to pull out his tomahawk to block a strike from a gangster. The scrawny man tried to overpower the much stronger native, trying to force his dagger to the Assassin's chest. The warrior beat him to it by unsheathing his hidden blade and stabbing it in the man's heart. The teenager tossed his victim to the ground before slicing the throat of another, only to immediately burrow his tomahawk in another man's stomach.

A red haze covered Connor's vision as the sea of enemies swallowed him, slashing and spinning and slicing his way through. Around him, the clanging of steel and screams of battle, with the occasional shot of a flintlock. A body would fall whenever there was a _crack_ of a rifle. Suddenly the spinning images focused on an axe coming for the Assassin's head.

The warrior ducked out of the way just as the blade of the weapon buried in a crate beside him, shattering the wood. Connor looked up to see a brute of a man, face twisted in rage as he realized he had missed. The gangster pulled on the stem of his axe, but the weapon wouldn't budge. Connor watched with arms crossed, almost amused, as the brute wasted precious seconds trying to dislodge his axe with violent jerks and outraged grunts.

Finally the man gave up and glanced at his opponent. The Assassin merely cocked his head before charging with hidden blades unsheathed. However, the brute was expecting that.

Connor hissed as suddenly the back of the gangster's hand hit the side of his head, snapping his neck painfully. The Assassin stumbled back, looking up to see the brute wielding a dagger almost the length of a sword. The Mohawk warrior raised his arms to defend himself, but the gangster never had the chance to strike.

Suddenly a there was a wet thud and the brute gagged. His black pupils were replaced by the white of his eyes and his legs crumpled beneath him. But seeing the giant was still coming towards him, Connor hastily stumbled backwards. The brute fell face-first onto the ground where he once stood, dead. Connor sighed in relief and looked up to see Stephane.

"I find the big ones fall no different than the little ones," the cook mused as he pulled his butcher's knife from the man' back.

The Mohawk warrior didn't have a chance to reply, noticing something behind his friend. He pulled out a flintlock, the same time Stephane shouted a warning and raised his own pistol. They fired at the same time and there were simultaneous thuds.

"We still have a battle to fight, eh?" Stephane observed. Connor nodded and the two went their separate ways.

The Assassin clambered onto a nearby pile of crates, overlooking the entire pier. Writhing bodies clashed and corpses lined the ground, thankfully more of the gangsters than the mob. Still, Connor knew many of them had little-to-no combat experience. He had to finish this quickly. He did another scan, finding Stephane was already engaged, holding his own against four men, spitting and clawing like a bobcat. Another gangster fell to Clipper's rifle. As for Duncan…

A gangster had wrapped his arms around Duncan's, pinning the vigilante in place as another one was pointing a pistol at his head. Connor didn't hesitate.

The Assassin leaped from his perch and flew through the air like an eagle, landing on the gangster's back. He cut off the man's scream with his hidden blade. He jumped up just as Duncan elbowed his captor in the gut. The man dived to the ground, leaving the gangster exposed. The criminal realized too late as Connor tossed his tomahawk, the blade burying in the thug's chest.

Duncan jumped to his feet, looking back and forth between his attacker and his savior. A broad smile crossed his face.

"I guess we're even!" the man laughed.

Connor nodded and spun around, to see a tall man standing over the chaos, fury in his eyes. A fury only one man would have. A Templar leader.

Reclaimed tomahawk in hand, the Assassin charged. Unfortunately, the head gangster noticed and dodged, bringing up a sword to bat the attack away. Connor growled like a bear as he readjusted his hold on his weapon. His opponent did likewise, even twirling his sword in hand. They circled each other like a pair of feral dogs, analyzing the other.

The Templar struck first. In the blink of an eye, he closed the distance between them and sliced his sword towards Connor's head. But the Assassin was faster. He spun around the strike like a dancer, twisted his hidden blade to slice across the man's side. The gangster yelped in pain and wrapped his hand around the wound, blood seeping through his fingers. Now his look was feral as he glared at Connor, who settled a distance away.

"Damn you, Assassins," the Templar spat.

The warrior rolled his shoulders and readied his blades, daring the man to attack. Apparently he hadn't learned his lesson, because the Templar attacked again with a roar. This time Connor deflected it with one of his blades, using the other to slice across the man's arm. He screamed in pain and dropped his sword. His eyes widened when the gangster realized his mistake, but it was too late.

The Assassin kicked him square in the chest, sending him flying backwards and crashing into a pile of crates. The thug grunted in pain. He meant to move forward, but Connor pounced on him. The Templar made a weird noise as he glanced down, only to see his killer's hidden blade in his stomach. He looked back up to Connor's cold gaze.

"Where is your master, Templar?" the Assassin demanded. He really didn't know what to expect, but he was surprised when the man let out a humorless cackle.

"Is that what you think this is about?" he heaved. "You think I'm a part of some order run by old cocks?"

It took a full second for Connor to register what the man said. Then another to reply.

"What are you talking about?"

"Heh, you Assassins and Templars… so predictable, so gullible. It's only a matter of time before the Bossman kills the last of you."

He gasped as the Assassin pressed against his throat.

"Who do you work for?" Connor questioned.

"Wouldn't you like to know…"

The man's voice was getting weaker. The Assassin gritted his teeth, cursing himself for his horrible mistake. He had been quick to assume the Order was behind it, believing they would do as means necessary to hold the people under their thumb. He didn't realize they already had that power, by manipulating the army. And using gangs were too risky for the authoritative order.

But if they weren't Templars, then who? And what was he talking about, ridding of the Assassins and Templars?

"Tell me, now!" Connor bellowed.

Another humorless laugh. "You'll be too late, anyway. He'll kill her soon enough."

 _Her_? "Who? Where?"

"Right under your feet, Assassin."

Suddenly the man's head slumped forward and his body went limp. With a growl, Connor threw the corpse to the ground. The Assassin looked around, only to see exhausted faces and unmoving forms sprawled across the pier. All the gangsters were dead.

* * *

Selah did not eat. Even when her stomach growled, when it ached with hunger, when her body turned weak, she did not eat. Instead, she lay on the cold stone floor, unmoving whenever her meals were delivered. She spent time in between pacing restlessly, not looking at her "food." Not that it was a considerable effort.

They were delivered by a frail old man with a noticeable dead leg—a cripple. He would be easy. His companion and guard was another story. O'Brien obviously was wary of her, but he underestimated her still.

When the metallic clink of the lock, Selah fell onto her miserable spot on the floor. He would have to do something now. It had been too long.

With a long, high-pitched sound, light poured into the gloomy cell. Even though the prisoner's eyes were closed, her eyes burned at the sharp change in environment. She heard the light, but hindering, drag on the floor. Her jailer.

Selah couldn't help the flicker of guilt. He was a cripple, most likely shunned from society and only madmen would accept his help. And he had done nothing personal to her. In fact, he was merely helping her, by being responsible for her health. But it would cost him.

 _A necessary evil,_ Selah reminded herself. Haytham had taught her that.

The Templar's hearing was sharp as she heard a throaty sigh. No doubt he was looking upon her untouched meal with disappointment—just like her last few meals. She could practically see his frown.

The ex-Assassin's muscles tensed. Her grip tightened. Not yet.

Selah almost jumped out of her skin when there was a touch on her side. She had no contact since O'Brien left her to rot. But she did not move, not even when there was a harder touch. Almost like a kick.

"Up," a croaking voice ordered.

Selah did not move. Another kick.

"Up. Eat, child."

She was not a child.

There was another sigh and then there was a groan. Cold fingers wrapped around her collar and pulled. Suddenly there was a hot breath on her neck and the prisoner almost flinched at the foul stench assaulting her nostrils. There was two hands on her now, shaking her. Her instincts screamed and her muscles burned. Selah did not move.

She was not an Assassin.

Selah shifted her grip on the iron spoon. She had took it after a meal. The jailer was visibly upset and interrogated her and demanded it back, but she feigned innocence. Her sides had been patted down, but he did not dare touch her chest. But in retribution, he did not give her a spoon with her meals, and Selah did not use the one she had. It had taken hours to sharpen it against the stone. Selah did not move.

She was a _Templar_.

Selah's eyes shot open. The old jailer couldn't even work up a scream as she buried the sharp end into his throat. There was an ugly sound and Selah's hand became wet.

The guard sent a bored look over his shoulder at the noise, only for his eyes pop out of his skull. He spun around, pulling out his pistol. Before he could take aim, Selah closed the distance between them. She clamped a hand over his mouth and sliced the iron blade across his neck. The kill wasn't clean and blood spattered over Selah's already dirty clothes.

She shoved the body away, yanking the pistol from his grasp. Her legs weak from improper use and hunger, she stumbled into the corridor, but stayed on her feet. She stepped into a sprint. Selah blinked several times to allow her eyes to adjust, even though it was not that much brighter. A single lantern would light the long corridor at regular intervals. The walls were made of more iron than stone. The Templar's skin crawled. Cells.

Sure enough, she passed a couple with bars, only to see white faces but did not dare to stay. At one point, Selah heard a hoarse shout after her, but did not look. Finally she came to a halt, her shoulders heaving as she panted heavily. Sweat made her clothes cling to her skin.

Where was the exit? She had to find a way out soon, before another guard found her or her work was discovered. Or worse, she ran into Wolcott or O'Brien. Selah focused her racing heart to calm and closed her eyes. She concentrated.

When before she was surrounded by darkness, she could See. Her senses mingled into one, so that she could taste the earth around her, smell the voices of men (close, but not too close), and see the stirring of the air. Selah ran forward. She let that mysterious, ancient instinct take over, guiding her through the tunnels. She did not keep track how many turns and corridors she took. She came to a halt at a wooden door.

Selah senses returned to normal, and she blinked at the darkness that greeted her. There was no light here. Instead, Selah inhaled to smell a sharp, fresh scent. Almost like the cooking Haytham's servants would give her. It was coming from the other side of the door. The air whispering through the barrier's cracks carried it. The woman's heart quickened. Outside.

She used her smell and hearing to near the exit, and used her touch to find the lock. The ex-Assassin took her newfound weapon, lodging the sharp tip in the lock's mechanisms. There was a full minute of the sounds of clicking, and Selah's heart raced faster with each second. She did not dare breath and sharpened her hearing, waiting to hear the footsteps of a guard, Wolcott's snicker, or O'Brien's menacing growl.

It just made her attempts more desperate and shaky, taking her even longer. Selah guessed three minutes had gone by the time the lock broke with a satisfying _clunk_. She nearly gasped in relief, despite the thought that Haytham would be ashamed by her squandering.

The Templar threw the door open and raced up the stairs that greeted her. She came to a trapdoor above her, and without a second thought, she burst through.

She looked up to see dozens of stars greeting her. The half-moon was hidden by a church's tall bell tower. All around her were stone and wooden buildings, crammed close together as possible. Selah pulled herself onto the dirty ground, which was littered with forgotten items. An alleyway.

Selah wanted to collapse with relief. She was outside. She had escaped. But where was she?

 _Only one way to find out,_ the woman thought.

She latched onto the nearest wall. Falling back on years of training, she used the frames of windows, loose stones, and even a hanging lantern to scale it to the roof. As she had no real practice in so long, between her injury (which pulled with each movement) and her captivity, it was slower than she would have preferred.

Selah found herself on a top of the bell tower, overlooking the city skyline. It stretched as far as the eye could see, ending at a dark ocean to her right and a green smudge on the horizon that made the frontier to her left. Boston. She was still in Boston.

Not daring to waste another moment, Selah fell from her perch and jumped onto the next roof. She stepped into a sprint, leaping from roof to roof with spread arms. Occasionally she heard a sharp shout of a British sentry, but she would slip from sight before he could hope to stop her. Usually Selah would relish the feeling of the wind in her hair, but now she only concentrated on running as fast as possible, her heart racing.

The Templars had safehouses all over the city. Even after the fall of the Brotherhood, Haytham ensured that they were manned, either by mercenaries or soldiers or whatever Templar that happened to be available. A rule Selah was sure he strictly enforced after the resurrection of their adversary. If she found one, she could send a letter to Haytham, or even Castle William.

The Templar stopped on a rooftop, panting. _Of course._ Castle William was the bastion located on outskirts of Boston, separated by marshland. It rested on its own plot of land, Castle Island (leave it to the army to lack any creativity). Its isolation served for the perfect headquarters for the city, away from the prying eyes of citizens, and more importantly, the Order's enemies. It was constantly filled with British soldiers, all highly trained and armed, on alert for anyone foolish enough to attack. Not even O'Brien would dare to near the fort.

Selah's stomach turned. There was a problem. Castle William was on the other side of the city. It would take the woman the better part of the night to reach it, if she could even make it. Already her legs were beginning to shake from fatigue and malnourishment. No, she needed to contact a Templar cell, first. But what if there _weren't_ any?

O'Brien made it perfectly clear he wished to eradicate any and all Templars, and it was her natural assumption he would start with Boston. He had already found the location of Gillian's apartment, something Selah didn't even know until she forced it out of the seductress. Gillian was very careful of disclosing that information.

The Templar either of had the option of running around the city in hopes to find a fellow Templar not yet killed, or a straight, and very long, shot to the fort. Selah swallowed. Castle William was the best bet she had of reaching the Order directly, not mention sanctuary. It was a risk she had to take. Not for herself. They _all_ were in danger.

The Templar took off again, praying she was not making the same mistake she made almost a decade ago. She had been when she was first kidnapped by the Templars, and she foolishly thought she could escape her captors. She thought she outsmarted them when she recruited William Saint-Prix to find her a way to Europe. Only to have him killed.

 _No one will die tonight,_ Selah vowed.

The ex-Assassin landed on a roof of a tavern. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up straight. Her instincts screamed, so sharp and so shrill it felt like a high-pitched sound in her ear. The Templar immediately rolled into a crouch, just as a streak of movement went by her eye with a haunting whistle. It wasn't until she hit the ground that she heard the thunder, followed by a _crash_ of shattering glass.

Selah looked over her shoulder with wide-eyes, locks of hair in her face, only to lock eyes with John O'Brien.

He looked more like a feral beast than a man. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, revealing yellow fangs. Despite he was silhouetted against the moonlight, Selah saw his narrowed eyes were dark and murderous. The smoke was still rising from the barrel of his flintlock, which he still held in shooting position. It was double-barrelled.

Selah leaped from her spot, just another shot filled the air. There was a sharp sound as the musket ball buried in the plywood. Selah jumped to the next roof, followed by a vicious roar. Suddenly she didn't feel like a victorious Templar. She felt like a young, naive girl, fearing for her life.

 _Selah flew through the city, running as fast as her body would allow. She didn't dare waste time searching for pursuers or shelter, only caring on an escape route without a thought of slowing down. But it wasn't long before the shouts of pursuers reached her ears._

The woman blinked the memory away. No, she wasn't a little girl anymore.

 _Selah gasped at the new wave of blood and death that filled her mouth, rising to fill her nostrils. The thunder was accompanied by a piercing ring. Her vision flashed with a brilliant red as a new glowing figure joined her above New York, freerunning as fast as her. Even with her panic, she was able to recognize who it was. Shay, the Assassin Hunter._

If only she knew Shay had no intention to hurt her. But it wasn't Shay that was chasing her. It was a monster. A monster that _was_ going to hurt her. Was going to kill her.

 _"Where do you think you're going?"_

It was hard to breathe. But the more she tried to suck in air, the less seemed to fill her lungs. Oh, how they _burned_. She couldn't feel her legs, and she had to concentrate to keep them moving. She did feel the sweat rolling down her back, an uncomfortable wet sensation that made her shirt cling to her skin.

Selah cleared a gap, but misjudged the distance. She stumbled onto the slanted roof, latching on to the shingles for dear life. She recovered too late. There was a monstrous growl and a heavy weight fell on her back.

Selah screeched as she fell back down, clawing at the thick arms that wrapped around her waist, pinning her. The woman threw her head back as hard as she could, connected the back of her skull to O'Brien's chin. There was a grunt, but the arms didn't loosen. Instead, their combined weight shifted and Selah felt gravity wrap around her in a cold vice grip.

She yelped as she slid down the roof at an odd angle. She tried to claw for a handhold, but her arms were pinned beneath her. Suddenly the solid platform disappeared, only empty space. Only to hear the wind roar in her ears and to feel all her organs displaced. Itseemed to last for an eternity. And still the ground came too soon.

Selah screamed as her shoulder took the force of her impact. She felt the muscles of her old wound pull painfully at the unwelcomed strain. By some miracle her head didn't hit, instead it was cushioned by a soft, but solid arm. There was a deep groan, telling her captor wasn't as lucky. The warrior acted quickly.

She struggled and an arm slip free. She felt thick fingers wrap around her biceps, painfully. It was too late, as she already twisted her shoulder, delivering her elbow to O'Brien's nose. There was a _crack_ and the man yowled, more in anger than pain. Selah spun in her captor's hold until she was on all fours. She willed every ounce of strength in her haunches, lunging forward in a pounce—and out of O'Brien deadly grip.

Selah leaped to her feet, only for pain to come her ankle. O'Brien tugged and she fell face-first game to the muddy ground. Acting quickly, she twisted around, bent her leg to bring her heel down on her assaulter. The Irishman caught her foot before it connected to his face. Selah tried to scrambled away, only to be pulled back by both her ankles, having pain shoot up her legs. She had no time recover as she was dragged further underneath the massive frame.

O'Brien's expression was like a starving beast gotten a hold on his prey. Selah gritted her teeth.

With a yell, she slashed her makeshift weapon across her captor's face. O'Brien roared and his crushing grip loosened, just enough for Selah to pull her knees to her chest. She slammed both feet into the carpenter's shoulders, bending him backwards and away from her. Finally free, the Templar scrambled to her feet. Her trembling legs stumbled on the muddy ground, but she righted herself into a battle stance. She held the sharpened spoon like a dagger, even though it was anything but.

It wasn't the first time she used an absurd weapon. Hopefully this time yielded better results.

Her narrowed gaze never left O'Brien's broad form as he propped himself up onto his knees, a hand touching his face. A thick red line went from one cheek to the other, across his lips underneath his jagged broken nose. His face was already coated with blood and mud, prompting him to give an amused snort.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?" he scoffed. Selah chose to ignore his comment.

"You're no Assassin," she accused. "You never were."

"Nor were you," O'Brien replied, grunting as he raised himself to his feet. He stood taller than she ever could.

"No. I am a Knight of the Templar Order. You're just a demon who calls himself a man."

The ex-Assassin only smirked at the comment. "Big words for a little girl."

He unattached the sledgehammer tied to his belt. The handle was as long as his arm and the head was the size of his fists. In the light of a nearby lantern, Selah's stomach rolled to notice dark stains of blood on the face of the instrument. O'Brien settled back on his heels and narrowed his eyes. His hunched shoulders made him look more like a bear than a human.

"I'm going to _crush_ you!" the monster roared, and he charged.


	33. Part IV: Confrontation

**For those wondering why I missed an update, here's why:**

 **Me: "I wanna write."**

 **School: "But you have an exam."**

 **Me: "But I wanna write."**

 **School: "Study, write later."**

 **Me: *studies chemistry and biology for a week straight* "What was I gonna write?"**

* * *

Selah barely managed to dodge the sledgehammer aimed for her head. With a gasp, she stumbled back, only fall back on unstable feet. O'Brien swung at her again with a snarl, and Selah ducked underneath the swing. She stayed on the defensive, avoiding each one of O'Brien's attacks as he sent one after the other. Each one was just as powerful as the last, and the Templar knew if he struck her, the damage would be crippling. And that was only if it didn't kill her.

"What's wrong?" O'Brien demanded, taunting. "Where's that lil' fire in you?"

Selah swallowed. Her only weapon was a roughly-sharpened blade. Her body was weakened. O'Brien had fury and hate fuel his powerful strikes, along with decades of experience. Not to mention how he dwarfed her. The woman was no fool—the monster had every advantage in this fight, and she had to find a way to turn it in her favor.

Selah sidestepped a strike, cringing as the heavy anvil tore apart the wood of a barrel and sent it to the ground. The collected rainwater spilled onto the ground, turning into mud. She retreated as O'Brien advanced.

"I don't know what James saw that was so special in you," he continued to taunt. "You were a sniveling runt ever since you stepped onto Homestead. Even Achilles wanted you gone."

The mention of the names shook Selah to her core, even if she didn't want to. Instead of cold stone around her, she saw a fresh forest. It was her home. Even it was never meant to be her _true_ home. Selah saw the wood of the _Morrigan_ 's hull, the kitchens of Haytham's manor, the stone of Fort George.

The Templar swallowed and tightened her grip on her makeshift blade.

" _Focus,"_ an echo of a clear, calm voice instructed.

" _Balance,"_ a rich, authoritative voice snapped.

" _Stay sharp,"_ a gravelly tone barked.

O'Brien swung again. Instead of avoiding it, Selah dived forward. She buried the blade in the carpenter's side, provoking a howl of agony. Just as quickly, pain exploded from her right cheek.

The woman fell on the ground with a gasp, managing to catch her fall with her palms. She ignored the sting of pain as the skin was ripped apart. Instead, she looked over her shoulder to see O'Brien lifting his weapon over his head. Acting quickly, Selah wrapped her legs around the beast's ankle. She twisted her legs and rolled at the same time.

Although she didn't hear a snap, like she hoped, there was a grunt and a heavy thud as O'Brien crashed onto the ground. Her heel collided with his eye before he could recover. Another pained yell. Selah jumped to her feet, only for the world to pan. She snatched a hold of the wall to keep her steady and held out her iron blade in front of her.

O'Brien was already rolling onto all fours. With a groan, he used his sledgehammer to rise to his feet, his face more battered than before. Blood was pouring from his side. When the man gingerly touched the wound, his entire hand was stained red. He snarled darkly. Selah pushed off the wall and held out her fists, readjusting her hold on her blade.

"Do you think that lil' spoon is gonna save you?" O'Brien growled.

"How about you come find out," Selah retorted.

The madman couldn't resist the obvious taunt. He brought up he sledgehammer and Selah once again jumped back. The woman gritted her teeth. Shouldn't he be _tired_? Using all the power had to be draining. Then again, O'Brien had been swinging hammers all his life, both on wood and flesh.

Selah had infiltrated his defenses once. He wasn't as invincible as he thought.

However, the rogue Assassin was more careful. Selah had dived twice—each time failed. At the first attempt, the carpenter sidestepped her slash and nearly caved in her head. The second time he simply pushed her away with a single hand. Selah crashed onto the ground with a cry. She tried to regain her balance, only for O'Brien to land a brutal kick to her ribs. Agony erupted from her side, sending her back to the ground. Selah rolled onto her back, gripping her side with clenched teeth.

A giant hand closed around her throat. The Templar gasped and wrapped her hands around O'Brien wrist, but it was hopeless. He easily pulled her up so their faces were merely an inch apart. Selah tried to flinch away, but her captor's vice grip kept her in place.

"I was going to kill you first," he hissed in a low, dangerous tone. "Make Haytham watch like I watched my brothers die. Instead I'll make _you_ watch as I kill every single Templar on this _continent_."

Selah snarled. _No._ She raised her iron blade to bury it in his skull—O'Brien caught her hand without even looking. He bent her wrist in a direction it wasn't meant to go, sending fiery pain down her arm as the muscles protested at the abuse. Selah cried out.

Her other hand around his wrist let go, falling to the ground. There was a jab of pain from her palm, but it was insignificant compared to the crushing grip on her throat. Her fingers wrapped around the stone. Darkness crept into the edges of her vision as her lungs began to burn. The Templar still had enough strength to slice the jagged rock across O'Brien's wrist.

The man let out a bellow, and his grip loosen just enough for Selah to greedily take in air. The single breath reinvigorated her. Selah pushed her palm against his stomach, as if she could force him away. His bulk didn't even budge, but her fingers felt something solid and smooth. A texture she knew like the back of her hand, because she touched it everyday for the past twelve years.

Robert's gift. Her hunting dagger.

It pulled out of its sheath as easily as always.

O'Brien heard the distinct sound of metal and quickly flinched away. Selah just as quickly sliced up, hoping to carve into the monster's heart. The dagger only left a slash across his chest.

The man leaped to his feet, hissing in more of annoyance than anything else. Selah did likewise, twisting her returned weapon in her hands. She did not let up her attack. She blamed her half-fatigued state, which fueled as much desperation as exhaustion.

O'Brien regained his hold over his sledgehammer, which he widely swung with a yell. Selah concluded he was as dumb as a beast. In a maneuver that bordered on suicidal, the warrior collapse on her knees, using her momentum to send her skidding underneath the carpenter's attack. As she did so, she sliced across his calf.

O'Brien hissed and stumbled, but stayed on his feet. He hesitated long enough for Selah to jump to her feet, only to face a wall. The ex-Assassin placed the sole of her foot on the brick, pushing up and twisting at the same time. Selah raised her dagger to plunge it into the carpenter's neck, using her height to her advantage. But O'Brien saw her ploy.

He snatched her out of the air and with a growl, furiously threw her to the ground. Selah cried as she landed on her own side, forcing herself to roll over to kick out. The heel of her boot connected to his crotch.

O'Brien stumbled back with a grunt, but didn't collapse like most men did. Still, it gave Selah time to climb to her feet. There was an abandoned crate that the Templar hiked up on, using the added height and momentum to throw herself in the air. Instead of snatching her, the mad Assassin swung his sledgehammer to knock her out.

Selah twisted midair, sending her heels into his chest, the same time his hammer collided with her ribs. The Templar fell onto the ground with a pained wheeze. It wasn't her bad side, but she felt an explosion of agony from her chest. No doubt he had broken a rib or two.

There was a horrible sound of shattering glass along with a yell that was cut off with a gasp. Selah looked up to see O'Brien's back had crashed into the window behind him. The frame split underneath his heavy frame and he could not break his fall back into the closed shop. The large figure disappeared into the dark abyss.

Silence.

Grinding her teeth together, Selah pushed herself onto all fours. Her arms trembled, unable to hold her weight. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears and her darkened vision was blurry. Her hands were trembling as they wrapped around her dagger, her only defense. With a hiss, she pushed herself to her knees.

She waited. For a roar. For O'Brien to appear. To attack her. He did not come.

The Templar forced herself to stand. She collapsed twice before she made it to her feet. On trembling legs, she tentatively neared the shattered window, holding out her dagger like a cross. Keeping as much distance as possible, she peered into the dark, gaping hole.

The lantern light from the street shone on a pair of legs, surrounded by broken shards glass. Unmoving. Selah did not dare move, did not dare breathe, as she sharpened her hearing. Nothing. No growl, no gasp, no breath.

Dead. John O'Brien was dead.

Impaled by a shard of glass.

Selah let out a shuddering breath. Relief automatically released her frozen muscles and the buzz in her head faded. Suddenly her body swayed and the woman fell against the wall of the store.

The adrenaline was gone, along with any endorphins in her veins. Now she only felt pain. It radiated from her torso, her limbs, her head, _everything_. Selah gripped on the last part of rationality in her mind.

She needed a doctor.

The woman glanced up at the lamppost above her. It held a street sign. It took a full minute for the Templar to recall the streets of Boston, and which ones were closest to her. She remembered the only one that had a doctor.

She prayed Haytham would forgive her.

* * *

The walk was only a few blocks. The walk was the longest in Selah's entire life.

She didn't even have the strength to knock on the door. Instead, she collapsed against it, curling into a ball on the steps. It was over a minute until the door opened with a squeak and a gasp. Selah, who was slumped against the door, almost fell into the foyer. She was able to catch herself at the last moment.

"Dear God!" a shrill, nasally voice gasped. Unfamiliar. There was a touch on her shoulder—tentative, soft. When she did not react, there was another touch on her other arm. "Miss? What happened to you? Can you hear me?"

Selah opened her eyes to see a stranger's face. But she knew who he was. And it filled her with a shame. The words hurt to say, in more ways than one.

"Please," she gasped, hating how her voice cracked. "I'm a Son."

Instantly Dr. Lyle White's countenance turned somber. "Can you stand? I need to get you inside."

Selah slowly nodded. One hand grasping the railing leading up the steps and the other held by the doctor, she repositioned her legs to push herself up. It was a shaky process, but managed to get to her feet. If leaning on a rebel doctor counted.

The woman only heard his name a couple times, and that was within the walls of a Templar fort. The only reason the Order hadn't eliminated him was because he had no real connection to the Brotherhood or the Sons of Liberty. Only a rebel sympathizer, but the soldiers were finding more and more each day.

Inside, Selah was greeted with warm air and the crackling of the fire. She didn't know she was shivering until it pressed against her cold skin. Dr. White gently guided her to the closest bedroom, which was thankfully on the first floor. Noticing the nearly bare room, the woman concluded it must had been for patients. There was only a bed and a desk.

Dr. White laid his new patient on top of the sheets, trying to make her comfortable. He had to assess her wounds, first. Selah didn't care, burying her head in the firm pillow.

"I need to get my kit," the scrawny man announced, turning to leave. "Hold a moment."

Selah barely heard him, her consciousness already slipping away. She was brought back to the world that sounded too much like metal grating against each other. The woman flinched and lifted her head. She saw Dr. White fishing through a black leather bag.

"My apologies," he hummed when he noticed he startled her. Selah merely closed her eyes.

He began pulling objects out of his kit—metal tools, bottles of solution, and rolls of gauze. He laid them out across the desk, methodically.

"Dr. White?" a voice suddenly came. A voice Selah recognized. "What's all the noise?"

She snapped her eyes open, awakened from her stupor.

"A woman came in," Dr. White explained as he turned to a nearing figure. "She says she's one of yours."

"I beg your pardon?"

She lifted her head again, this time along with her upper body. Just in time for Sam Adams to walk into the room.

He flinched away the moment he saw her hateful gaze with a gasp. "How—"

The rebel leader didn't have a chance to finish his statement as Selah snatched a pair of scissors from Dr. White's hand. The man yelped in surprise, too stunned to stop her from jumping to her feet. The warrior lunged towards Adams, her newfound weapon raised.

Only for her to stumble halfway there.

Selah let out a cry as the world spun without warning. The ground tilted like she was on the _Morrigan_ , so much it felt like she was walking up a hill. Her legs buckled underneath her.

The wooden floor rushed up to meet her, but it never came. Suddenly something strong wrapped around her torso, stopping her fall. She heard the scissors clatter to the floor. Darkness returned to surround her vision.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken, doctor," Adams commented as he adjusted his hold on the collapsed woman. Selah couldn't fight as her head fell against his shoulder and an arm slipped under her legs. He fixed the other man with a glare.

"She said she was a Son," White replied in a small voice, trying to defend his case.

"You just _let_ her _in_?"

"Am I supposed to check _everyone_ that comes in my door is a murderer?"

"She's not a murderer," Adams corrected. Selah felt herself being lowered, the plush of the bed returning. "She's a Templar."

"A what?!"

"And you're a rebel," Selah whispered. She opened her eyes to look at the man.

He looked down at her with a torn look. Part of him looked like he wanted to bolt. But he stayed. Selah did not know why.

"I am," Adams agreed. "But so are you now, remember?"

Selah swallowed, unable to come up with a smart reply. Dr. White, who was readying his tools moments before, now hesitated.

"Um, should I…?" he trailed off, unable to think how to properly finish the sentence. Selah wondered if he knew what a Templar was, but he seemed to realize his patient was no friend.

"She needs our help, doctor," Adams insisted. "No matter what she's done, no man deserves this."

The woman didn't have the strength to correct him. She closed her eyes, trying to escape into sleep. She was interrupted by a tentative touch on her knee.

"Who did this to you?" Adams asked, his voice soft. Like Selah didn't just try to kill him.

The Templar swallowed. Even that hurt. She didn't know where to began.

"...An...Assassin," she managed, licking her chapped lips. Adams's refusal was immediate.

"No, Connor wouldn't do this," he argued, shaking his head.

Selah's scar on her side ached. Connor was not the one who hurt her this time, but it was an Assassin all the same. Assassins, all they did was take and take, and they cut down anyone in their way.

She was forced to stay awake as Dr. White examined her. All she wanted was _sleep._ But the poking fingers and objects kept her in reality. The doctor's touches were gentle and hesitant, either because he feared she would retaliate or because she was a woman. He asked permission to remove her coat and vest. Selah came to the conclusion he mostly treated men.

"Where are the others?" Adams demanded, thuds of his pacing echoing across the room. "They should be back by now."

"Well, who knows how long a gang war lasts," White replied, not turning his head.

Selah didn't know what they were talking about, but didn't care. White asked her questions. The patient answers became more and more slurred until she could only give grunts of acknowledgement.

Selah fell asleep to the sound of Dr. White returning the tools to his kit.

* * *

It was a horrible crash that violently jolted Selah from her dreamless sleep. Followed by Dr. White's startled cry.

"Who in the world are y—ah!" he demanded, only to end with a shout of pain.

Selah opened her eyes just in time to see Sam Adams jumping to his feet from his chair on the other side of the room. The rebel leader drew his sword. He stormed over to the door of the room, only to come face-to-face with a man head taller than him.

John O'Brien, bloody but very much alive, seized Adams by the shoulders and tossed him aside like he was a ragdoll. The man crashed into the wall with a shout, only to cut off as his head banged against the wood. He fell to the floor unconscious.

Selah was already throwing the sheets off of her, reaching out to snatch a pair of scissors Dr. White had forgotten. She twisted and placed her feet on the ground. Only when she stood, the world spun again and her knees buckled. The helpless woman fell to the ground before O'Brien could even reach her. He sneered in disgust.

"You make it _so_ easy," he mocked in a nasty tone.

Before Selah could respond, he snatched a fistful of hair. He pulled at her roots, provoking a harsh cry from the sensitive sensation. She was forced to submit to his superior strength to stand, although she was shaking. Acting quickly, the Templar sent the scissors to the bastard's ribs. He caught her wrist with a crushing grip.

A vicious smirk was on his face as the woman yelped. Selah writhed against him, trying to lift her leg to knee him, but of no avail. Suddenly she flinched when she felt hot breath on her ear, sending chills down her spine.

"Don't worry," O'Brien whispered, in deceptive softness, "I'll end your miserable life soon."

With that, he sent his brow into Selah's. The woman's head snapped back without her permission, her vision going white. She collapsed, but strong arms caught her before she could fall. O'Brien plucked her up in his arms, as if she weighed a feather, and started back out.

Selah wanted to fight back. To hurt him. To _kill_ him. But the world wouldn't stop spinning…

Her captor let her head hang, not caring for her comfort. In the corner of her eye, she saw Dr. White on the floor, blood trickling from his temple. The view disappeared as O'Brien turned towards the back door, the one he broke down, and shifted his hold on her. Selah closed her eyes, fighting tears.

She failed. She _always_ failed.

"Let. Her. Go."

It was a smooth, clear voice, spoken deep from the chest. Devoid of any accent. Filled with a anger and authority Selah did not know he had. The woman opened her eyes just as O'Brien turned, allowing her to see a tall, familiar figure on the other side of the room.

The Assassin.

Connor.

His hazel eyes were shadowed by his hood, so that his chiseled jaw and stern frown could only be seen. His ivory coat was stained with blood, not yet cleansed from his most recent fight. He stood tall and imposing, feet spread in a stance to lunge. His tomahawk glittered in the candlelight.

"So you're that _fecking_ Assassin everyone's been making a fuss about," O'Brien mused, not impressed.

The man turned his back on the younger boy and moved towards the door. Only to be greeted by the barrel of a rifle.

"Na-ah," a young frontiersman threatened, his eye on the line of sight and finger on the trigger. A sound came from the stairs above them.

" _Bonjour_ ," an accented voice sang. Selah glanced up to see a chef aiming a pistol at the intruder.

In the corner of her vision, she saw a preacher kneel beside a fallen Dr. White, placing two fingers on his neck.

"He's alive," the man sighed with relief.

Assassins.

"So you got yourself a merry lil' group, huh?" O'Brien sneered.

"I will not ask again," Connor threatened. Why did he sound so much like Haytham?

"And why should you concern yourself with a _Templar_?"

"Because she _was_ an Assassin. That makes her one of us."

O'Brien scoffed with disbelief. There was a moment of tense, unbreakable silence. The Assassins glared at the intruder, waiting for the smallest invitation to attack. Selah's captor just regarded them with an analyzing glare of his own.

Then he threw his prisoner at the boy in front of him.

Selah cried at the uncomfortable sensation and crashed into the frontiersman, sending them both crashing to the ground. O'Brien ducked, just as the chef fired, leaving a hole in the floor. The Assassin cursed in French. Before he could react, the madman snatched his wrist and pulled him over the railing, sending him crashing to the floor with a horrible thud. Connor and the preacher lunged forward, trying to clear the distance in as few bounds as possible. O'Brien saw them coming.

"A gift from our Ottoman brothers," he drawled. Selah knew what that meant.

"Connor, _run_!" she screeched, just as the ex-Assassin plucked something from his pocket and threw it at the floor.

O'Brien had and only needed a mere few seconds to snatch his prisoner up and leap into the safety of the yard.

From inside the house, there was a flash of light that blinded Selah for a brief moment.

There was a horrible, deafening roar, echoing into the night. Followed the sound of pained screams.

Then silence.

* * *

… ***runs away***


	34. Part IV: For the People

**Wow, I fail at schedules. Sorry for the lateness for this chapter. It's a bit of a filler, but I had a light hiatus because I had difficulty with the dialogue of this chapter, so tell me what you guys think!**

* * *

Haytham was not pleased. He had gotten one piece of bad news after another—and no explanation as to _why_. Such a thing infuriated him.

It started with his spies reporting they had lost Victor Wolcott's trail. A year after poor Jack's disappearance, one of his top agents. The closest they came to killing the traitor, and all their efforts, wasted. Now the bastard was lost to the wind, no doubt coddling with his new friends.

A few days ago, it was the death of Gillian. The girl was one of his younger subordinates, hardly older than Selah, but one of his most resourceful subordinates. She was loyal and more importantly—she got information. Only for her career to end by being murdered, in her own apartment, no less. Charles theorized it was one client too many, but Haytham knew better.

Gillian was smarter than that. And she was perfectly capable of defending herself. Only one entity could kill a highly-trained Templar, in their own home, and leave no trace. A name he once said with loathsome venom, and now as a curse. _Assassin_.

It just confirmed his suspicion, when Captain Mallow sent word that Castle William was infiltrated by the Brotherhood. Along with the report that Templar agents had been disappearing from their posts. Haytham replied with a letter of his own, demanding how Boston, a city under their _complete_ control, failed to notice the presence of an Assassin. When he received no reply, he looked to other contacts.

Only to learn Benjamin was pursuing his profits again. Haytham sent another letter. He had yet to receive a reply.

Now the Templar Grandmaster paced his office, grinding in his teeth. Where in _blazes_ was Selah?! He summoned her _days_ ago. She always answered; sooner than most. Suddenly the door opened.

"Finally, there you are," Haytham vented, whirling around. He opened his mouth to continue to berate the troublesome girl, only to notice it was not Selah. Shay stood in the doorway, blinking at him.

"Is there a problem, sir?" the Irishman asked, noting the Grandmaster's restless state.

"I thought you were Selah," Haytham admitted. He continued his pacing, waving a dismissive hand. "She hasn't answered my summons. Probably sulking again." In the corner of his eye, he saw Shay cock an eyebrow.

"I thought she was with you."

The words made the Brit stop in his tracks. He turned to Shay.

"What makes you say that?" Haytham asked.

"She told me she was being relocated to Fort George," the Master Templar explained, shrugging. "I figured you wanted her close, after everything."

Now Haytham's impatient annoyance turned to confusion. "No. I gave her orders to report to you."

"She must have missed the ship when we embarked."

They both knew that was unlikely. Shay knew the ocean tended to soothe Selah, when she was isolated from the stress of the Colonies. Haytham knew that Selah would not miss the opportunity to join Shay's crew. The Grandmaster grinded his teeth again. He had warned Selah about lying—she was terrible at it and more importantly, he would always find out. Apparently, she had not listened.

Why would she lie, to both of them? What could she be hiding? _Where was she_?

"Where was she last?" Shay asked, breaking his thoughts. He said it like Haytham had lost his favorite hat.

"I left her in Boston," the Grandmaster confessed. He thought leaving her some time alone would do her good. He should had brought her with him.

"What about the Assassin?"

For the first time in his life, Haytham froze. He remembered the missing agents. He remembered Gillian's death. Then it was likely—

"How soon can you make it to Boston?" the Grandmaster demanded.

"Considering the ocean is quicker—and safer—than the roads nowadays," Shay replied with a dry comment, "three days, if the wind is with us."

Haytham glared. "Find her, Shay."

"It will be done," Shay vowed, his voice hoarse and his hands balled into fists.

With that, Shay disappeared, no doubt embarking immediately. Haytham resumed his pacing, but more frantic than before. He _knew_ Selah would be a target. The Brotherhood was resentful and never forgot a debt. It did not matter if she was merely an apprentice when she turned against them. Those fiends would prioritize a traitor more than any Templar agent.

It was why he _told_ Selah not to pursue the Brotherhood. Nor the Sons of Liberty, if the two organizations were truly linked. But she did not listen. She wanted revenge, too caught up in her moral code of justice. And no doubt she was too eager to prove herself.

 _You blasted girl_ , Haytham wanted to scold her, wishing she was in front of him. Did she not wear the ring of the Cross? Did she not see she was a Knight?

He would _not_ let her foolishness cause her death. It was what destroyed his family—yes, Edward Kenway was foolish, to trust Reginald, the scheming snake he was. Haytham was just as foolish, trusting the same man that orchestrated the murder of his father. But Reginald was just as stupid, to think he could mold a Kenway into his plaything. Foolishness would not take anyone else from Haytham.

* * *

The first thing Connor felt was pain. It was a dull ache that coursed through his body in waves, originating from the pounding in his head. The world was dark and muted by a sharp, high-pitched ringing. The Assassin opened his eyes, only to see that his vision was blurry and hazy. His eyes stung.

Part of Connor wanted to stay where he was and wait for the horrible feeling to go away. But another part of him, told him to _get up_. The boy let out a deep groan, which only ended in a pitiful cough. He lifted himself by using his elbows.

"Is everybody alright?" Connor asked as he raised himself in sitting position. Another cough was his reply.

"I'm fine, lad," Duncan answered between hacks. There was pitiful moan by the doorway.

"Ow…" Clipper whined. A moment of silence.

"Stephane?" Connor demanded.

His reply was a string of fury-filled sounds that the boy translated as French curses. Connor looked over to see the chef was curled up in a feeble position on the floor. He realized with horror that Stephane was the closest one to the bomb.

Where the strange man once stood was a blackened, gaping hole. Soot covered the walls, including a couple landscape portraits. Pieces of wood and shrapnel were scattered all over the apartment, buried in the furniture, the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. And limbs. Connor hissed as sharp pain came from his legs, looking down to see metal fragments projecting from his right thigh and left calf.

What kind of bomb was that?

The Assassin squinted through the lingering haze of smoke. The intruder was gone. And so was Selah. In their place were his fallen friends.

Connor shakily rose to his feet and went to Stephane's side. He gently rolled the man over, demanding what was wrong.

"Ngh, just a bite," the Frenchman assured, although his voice was strained.

The native looked down to see it was anything but "a bite." A particular large fragment had impeded itself in the man's stomach. The shirt around it was already stained with fresh blood. On the other side of the room, there was a sound of something shifting. Followed by a horrified squawk.

"Dr. White," Connor called. "It seems your services are required."

"What happened to my house?!" the doctor wailed instead.

"Good question," Duncan commented. The Irishman knelt next to Connor, helping Stephane settle against the wall. He glanced at the native. "Who the hell was that?"

"Not a Templar," Connor replied solemnly.

The man held Selah in his arms, but the Assassin could tell he was no friend. Selah was obviously hurt and weak, and the intruder had taken at advantage of her state. And apparently, he had no qualms destroying anything in his way. No, definitely not a Templar.

"She said he was an Assassin," a hoarse voice answered from the other side of the room.

Connor glanced up, to see Adams leaning against a door frame. He didn't look well, but he looked better than the Assassins. The rebel leader gathered his strength and stepped into the living room, his countenance solemn.

"Well, he's not one of ours," Clipper stated, groaning as he climbed to his feet. There was a cut on his cheek and blood on his coat, but otherwise he seemed unharmed.

"Who's 'he'?" Dr. White interrupted.

"I believe he's the one that attacked her," Adams continued.

"Attacked who?"

"Why would he do that?" Duncan asked.

"Can someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on?!" Dr. White yelled, frustrated and distraught.

"Doctor," Connor snapped. It was then the man took in the sight of a wounded Stephane.

"Well, it's certainly busy tonight," the Englishman commented. He disappeared to collect his tools.

"What happened, Adams?" the Mohawk Assassin demanded.

"The girl—what's her name again? Sarah? Selah? Yes, Selah—anyway," Adams started, trying to remember the Templar's name before continuing, "she just came to the door, hurt. Poor thing couldn't even stand. White did the best he could and we decided to wait for you. Then that… _man—_ " He said it like it was an inappropriate word. "—came busting through door, knocked White and I upside the heads, and—" He gestured to the hole in the floor. "—well."

"What? He just carries cannonballs in his pocket?" Clipper demanded, his voice almost in a shrill wail.

"Shrapnel bombs," Connor realized. He only read about them once—when Achilles made him read about weaponry from around the world. Namely, ones that were used by the Brotherhood. "They were used by the Ottoman Brotherhood."

"I thought you lads don't kill indiscriminately," Duncan pointed out.

After the battle at the docks, Connor had dared to reveal his order's existence to the Irishman. Although he seemed skeptical at the idea of an ancient secret order, he agreed with the Brotherhood's ideals. Or rather, Connor's ideals. It seemed Duncan was beginning to digest the full scope of the truth.

"We do not," the Assassin agreed. He paused. "...unless they abandon the Creed."

"Explains why he was after Selah," Clipper realized, only to cock his head and add, "I think…"

"Explains why he attacked _us_ ," Stephane seethed.

"Then it is all the more reason why we must kill him," Connor decided, standing up just as Dr. White returned. The Assassin allowed the doctor to take his place, the colonist already getting out his tools to treat his second patient for the night.

Connor thought. The intruder didn't leave that long ago. It was possible he was still close by, and it stood to reason he was still in the city. It was only a question of _where_ in the city. The Assassin had left that morning and returned by evening. It was a long time for an injured Selah to travel to Dr. White's house, but a short enough window to support the boy's theory.

"How long ago did Selah come here?" he asked Adams. Connor couldn't help but wince at Stephane's yowl of pain as Dr. White removed the piece of shrapnel. The rebel leader thought for a moment.

"Almost two hours ago, I believe," he answered.

"Did she tell you when she was attacked?"

"She was still bleeding, I can tell you that much."

"Then she was close," Connor realized. "They couldn't have gotten far."

But the idea only made the Assassin confused. Dr. White's home was not particularly isolated… How could an injured woman make it across Boston, without attracting a single patrol, which infested the city? More importantly, how did they fail to notice a fearsome figure, who was confident enough to escape with his prisoner?

"But how could they not be seen?" Connor thought aloud.

"Did you forget?" Duncan asked. When the Assassin turned his gaze to the preacher, he explained, "The same way we avoid the authorities. How the gangs and smugglers avoid the soldiers."

"How I got here," Adams added, catching on. Connor realized.

"The tunnels," the native breathed.

"Ah, the home of _ravageurs_ ," Stephane drawled, only to wince when Dr. White began stitching his wound.

"Didn't you say you've been tracking gang activity in the underground?" Connor asked Duncan, turning to him.

"Aye," the Irishman nodded.

"Wait, why are we sure that bastard is with the gangs?" Clipper asked, stepping forward.

"Because the men at the docks were not Assassin or Templar, yet they seemed to know our war," Connor explained.

"And they're too organized for the ordinary gang stuff," Duncan added. "They are doing a fine job hiding their operations from the authorities."

"They are using the tunnels to hide their activities," Adams hypothesized. He looked to Connor. "Those men that attacked me—they mentioned a boss."

"Maybe this 'boss' is responsible for taking Selah," Connor said.

"Why take a Templar agent, though?" Clipper asked.

"For the trade, ransom, leverage, run-of-the-mill lunatic—pick one," Duncan sniped, crossing his arms.

"Whatever the reason, we need to find her," Connor proclaimed, fixing his recruits with a serious gaze.

"Why? So she can stab or shoot us for her 'oh, so grand order'?" Clipper snapped, waving his hands exasperation.

" _Oui_ ," Stephane agreed, shifting his weight against the wall. "What she do for us? If anything, she is as much as a traitor as that _connard irlandais_."

"She came here for help," Connor argued.

"She came to a Son, or to a doctor?" the Frenchman challenged.

All eyes turned to Adams, who found a chair outside of the group during the conversation.

"She did… attack me," the rebel leader admitted hesitantly, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"The poor girl was jumpy, though," Dr. White admitted, looking up from his work to participate in the debate. He was tying the last stitch into place, and Stephane growing restless. "I mean, if your theory is true, she had just survived a fight for her life and all."

"Doesn't matter," Clipper snapped. "She'll kill any of us once she gets the chance. I say we leave her on her own. She would do the same to us."

"Then who should we abandon next?" Connor retorted a bitter tone. "The Sons, the Patriots, the _people_?"

He was surprised that there were several flinches, but he was too caught up in his thoughts to care. Suddenly he was a young boy again. Instead of the his friends, Ratonhnhaké:ton saw towering flames around him, burning his home. Burning his mother.

How much pain was she in, yet no one heard her screams? No one came to free her from her crushing prison, as the fire ate away her skin. Did she know, how she left her son? Alone.

Utterly, painfully, alone. Connor saw no worse a death.

The bloodlust in the stranger's eyes was clear. A similar fate awaited Selah, if they did not act. And Connor could not bear the thought.

"We are _Assassins_ ," he gritted out. "We fight not for ourselves, not for a king, neither for fortune nor glory but for _freedom_. The people's freedom. It is our duty. Our honor. And to abandon one is to abandon the Creed."

" _Enfer_! She abandoned it in the first place!" Stephane spat.

"But Selah made the same vow nonetheless," the native retorted. "Whether she still follows it or forgotten the Creed, she still has her sword of honor."

Connor remembered. When they first meet at the Customs House, she had an opportunity to kill him, but she stayed her blade. Again, at Griffin's Wharf, and she had only come to aid the horribly outnumbered soldiers. It was not until they met in the frontier he had seen her true hatred. How it was so much like his. The Assassin did not agree with her views, but it was Adams's words that prevented him from judging her.

 _"Then I'm sure she had her reasons for leaving the Brotherhood."_

Selah may have had her reasons to leave, but Connor had none to leave _her_.

"Selah _will die_ if nothing is done," the teenager proclaimed. "And she will only be the first of many. We all saw what that man is capable of. What is stopping him from coming after _us_ next?"

That seemed to the Assassins' attention as they exchanged uncertain glances. Clipper shifted his weight, Stephane pouted, and Duncan and Adams were solemn.

"I made a vow I intend to keep," Connor finished. "I'll go find her alone if I have to, if no one else will come."

For several moments there was silence. Clipper was the one to break it with a scoff.

"If you think you will go alone, then you _are_ mad son of a bitch," the frontiersman commented. He took a step forward, tapping the butt of his rifle on the ground.

" _Je suis d'accord_ ," Stephane sighed, almost reluctantly. "I still do not think this is a good idea, but you think so, then I will follow you, Connor."

The Frenchman pushed his back against the wall as he tried to gain leverage to stand, but failed with a grunt. His hand shielded his stitched, but still fresh, wound. Dr. White stilled him with a hand.

"You are not going anywhere with a wound like that," the doctor scolded. Stephane cursed in disappointment and complained. Before Connor could assure him, another voice spoke up.

"I will go then," Duncan stepped forward, slinging his musket over his shoulder. "I think it's safe to say the girl's not their only victim, and won't be their last. We need to finish this madness once and for all.."

The Mohawk warrior nodded in gratitude.

"I'll admit it, I don't like the woman," Adams confessed with a shrug. "But I won't stand in your way. I would even go with you, if only—" He glanced at his splinted arm with a frown.

Connor then turned to the last member of their party, who had remained silent and brooding. Clipper had found an interesting spot on the floor, his lip stuck out in a pout.

"Are you with us, Clipper?" Connor asked, firmly, but not fiercely.

There was a moment of silence. Then the young frontiersman rose and slumped in a deep sigh and he looked up.

"You could have killed me when we first met, Connor, and be done with it," Clipper told slowly. Connor remembered that day clearly. "You spared my life and trusted me to be a part of this. If you gave me the courtesy of that, then I think we should give others the same chance."

With that, Connor looked over the group. Including himself, there were five of them. But only three—Duncan, Clipper, and himself, would search for someone who was considered an enemy. And they no idea what they were up against.

"We start with the tunnels," the native announced.

"Sound decision," Duncan agreed.

"Ah, I envy you," Stephane whined, still cradling his upper body. "Make it the _morceau de merde_ worth his while. You must give me the details of the fight."

"Let's just get you some rest, alright?" Dr. White suggested, blanching at the Frenchman's fiery spirit.

With that, the three Assassins collected their weapons. They were still sore and some of their wounds were still bleeding, but they could still move and more importantly, fight.

"I recommend you hurry," Adams spoke up.

"Yeah, yeah, save the damsel and all," Clipper sighed.

The group was about to slip out the door, but the rebel leader's firm voice stopped them.

"No, not just that." The Assassins turned, confused as Adams's solemn gaze. "A messenger came by, from General Washington."

While the others only squinted, Connor took a step forward his friend, listening. Although the Assassin knew little of the man, he doubted Washington would risk getting valuable information getting intercepted. Unless—

"Our spies gotten word that there are Loyalists arriving from North Carolina," Adams reported. "If they surround the Continental Army, we will have another battle all over again."

It felt like a stone was dropped in Connor's stomach as he realized what the man was implying. Duncan and Clipper only stared confused.

"Wait, what does that mean?" the younger of the two asked, waving a hand.

"We can no longer afford to wait. We being the attack tonight."

* * *

Selah woke up to a high-pitched noise. It was distant, but it echoed around her until to sounded like it was right next to her. A man's scream, she mused. The woman didn't even start at the sound. She merely opened her eyes.

She was greeted with a yellow light briefly filling her vision before it moved away, replaced by shadow. Only for another lantern to pass her, and the cycle repeated. Selah closed her eyes and turned her head, pressing her temple into something warm and solid. It shifted in rhythmic movements, almost lulling her back to sleep.

Another scream jolted her back to reality. It was closer than before.

Her flinch was noticed.

"Still alive, huh?" O'Brien purred, tauntingly. His voice came above her and and solid warmth reverberated. He made a weird noise.

Selah shivered when she was realized she back in his prison. All that effort—starving herself, fighting, running away—it was all for nothing. Like everything else. Her days as an Assassin apprentice. Her days as a Templar Knight. How she fought for James, Haytham, Shay. They all had abandoned her. She did not blame them.

The woman had to bite her lip to keep the tears from escaping. O'Brien would not see her cry.

Suddenly the man's hold on her shifted and there was a high-pitched squeak of a metal door. Selah flinched again as a sulfur-like stench assaulted her nostrils. Along with the coppery scent of blood.

"Ah, you found her," Wolcott's rich accent greeted.

"Told you she didn't go far," O'Brien retorted.

"Were you seen?"

"They're dead."

Selah opened one eye into a slit. Her heart stopped at what she saw. It was a stone cell, much like what she was in before, but much broader. Pushed up against the far wall was a wooden table, covered in cloths and instruments. Next to it, in the corner of the room, was a iron brazier, a crimson fire eating away at red-hot coal. In the center of the cell were two more wooden tables, but one was occupied.

The Templar stared at the unmoving body that laid across the table. Leather restraints were tied around the body's ankles and wrists, keeping the prisoner in place. The man was shirtless, allowing her to see the dark lines crisscrossing his rugged chest. Selah did not stare at the almost black blood pooling underneath the person, but his skin. _Dark_ skin.

"J-Jack?" Selah whimpered.

A Templar that had been in the Colonial Rite longer than she, and even Haytham, being one of its first members. The woman had not known him well, but they went on several missions together. He was kind to her and he was a friend of Shay's. Selah remembered he had gone missing nearly a year ago—everyone said he was killed by either bandits or rebels.

But he was _here_. In this horrible place.

He was not moving.

"Ah, Mr. Weeks proved a good asset to my research," Wolcott drawled, following the woman's stare. The casual way he said it, it was if he was oblivious to her horror. Suddenly Selah's mouth moved before she could stop it, but her throat did not, causing her voice to be hoarse.

"You… killed him."

"In the name of science, my dear."

Science?! Doctors carved into the flesh of the dead, not the living! Selah opened her mouth to tell him the error of his ways, but O'Brien cut her off.

"Where do you want her?" he asked, like she wasn't present.

"This will do," Wolcott replied, gesturing toward the other table. This one was empty, save the buckles attached to the wood and stains of blood.

O'Brien took a step forward, and it became clear enough for Selah to see the still-red stains over near-black splotches. The Templar tasted bile when she realized more than one person had died there.

A fire lit up in Selah's soul.

" _No_!" she screeched.

Immediately she twisted in her captor's grip. Her sudden movement surprised him, a leg even slipping free. The warrior sent a powerful elbow into his nose, bending it the other direction. With a snarl, O'Brien reaffirmed his hold on her.

"I thought you dealt with her?" Wolcott inquired. He didn't even move a muscle at her outburst, not moving to help or flinch. He simply continued to stare with a quizzical tilt of his head.

"Just lend a hand, will you?" O'Brien grunted.

Wolcott practically shrugged as he crossed the room. He made the mistake to coming to close, allowing Selah to land a heel to his face. The sole of her boot connected to his spectacles with a _crunch_. That caused a reaction.

"You bitch!" Wolcott yowled, hands flying to his face and he recoiled backwards.

The stunt gave enough momentum for Selah to wiggle out of O'Brien's gasp. She fell to the floor, twisting onto her feet. She lunged, but the vice grip on her upper arms held her in place.

"Come here," O'Brien commanded through gritted teeth, wrapping his thick arms around Selah's lean torso, pinning her arms to her sides.

It gave enough time for Wolcott to return. Selah disappointed she did not blind him, but there was blood on his brow and nose. One spectacle was missing and the other had a large crack, held together by a bent wire. He was more cautious nearing her this time, anticipating and dodging her kicks (though he winced when the girl hit his shin). The Brit snatched her ankles and the two men held her between them and slammed her on the table.

Selah shrieked and clawed like a feral cat the entire time, and O'Brien had to use nearly all his weight to hold her down as Wolcott fumbled for the buckles. The woman's heart went quicker each time she heard the distinct _clinking_ of metal. The mad doctor tightened until she winced in pain, like it was digging into her skin.

Her ankles, her thighs, her wrists, and her torso were strapped down, only giving her head a couple inches to rise. She could not lax on buckle without tightening another.

"You brought this upon yourself, Templar," O'Brien sneered, looking down at her pinned form with a satisfied look.

"Go fuck yourself!" Selah screeched, spitting. The madman nearly chuckled and stepped away.

"She's all yours, Doctor."

"How generous of you," Wolcott purred. His calm, curious tone had already returned.

There was a squeak of metal as O'Brien hobbled out the door.

"Oh, and Doctor?"

"Hmm?"

"Make it hurt."

* * *

 **Translations:**

 **ravageurs - pests**

 **connard irlandais - Irish bastard**

 **enfer - hell**

 **Je suis d'accord - I agree**

 **morceau de merde - piece of shit**

 **Historical trivia: Starting with the Battle of Bunker Hill, the Continental Army laid siege to Boston. However, not having the sufficient weaponry to capture to the city, it was mostly limited to minor skirmishes. However, the British couldn't force the Army out, and the militiamen prevented any land access, so British resources were limited only to sea. The siege lasted almost a year, from April 19, 1775 to March 17, 1776, and is the first phase of the Revolutionary War.**

 **During this time, there were other squabbles across the Colonies. One of these battles was on February 27th, in Moore's Creek Bridge, North Carolina. American forces claimed victory, ending British authority in North Carolina and gave a major boost to the Patriot cause. So I'm kinda taking history into my own hands a little here, giving my interpretation that with nowhere to go, that British forces in North Carolina would be redirected to the pressured Boston.**

 **I'll add more trivia in the next few chapters, which I promise will have much more action.**


	35. Part IV: The Prison

Connor quickly realized why the gangs were using the tunnels. The Assassins had embarked on their solemn mission, and they had yet to make it two blocks before they encountered a regular patrol. They heard the soldiers before they saw them, the sound of drums and stomps of boots drifting through the streets. The group melted back into the shadows, watching the blood-red column pass.

"And this is what our boys are up against," Duncan stated solemnly.

Connor's gut twisted. A whole city's worth of soldiers, refreshed and properly trained and sustained by stocked supplies. Meanwhile, the recently formed Continental Army, which was still merely a group of allied militias, had sat outside the walls for a year. Starving, freezing, and weak.

George Washington's plan was nothing short of desperate. But it was the Brotherhood's battle as well.

"The siege is not our main concern," Connor whispered to his companions, firmly but not loud enough for the passing soldiers to hear.

"It will be pretty soon," Clipper commented.

The patrol went around a corner, the sound of drums fading away. With that, the Assassins went on, this time taking to the roofs. The sentries had no time to sound the alarm before the cold blade plunged into their necks.

Connor was the most fluid freerunner, bounding to one roof to the next in a single leap. Clipper, young and still being trained by the native, was steadily progressing across the uneven landscape, switching between holding his rifle and strapping it to his back. Duncan, the oldest and least skilled runner, was trailing behind and panting heavily, but kept pace. It caused them to spread out, but close enough to be in earshot, which allowed Connor to hear Clipper's startled call.

"Found something over here!"

Connor skidded to a halt on a flat roof and spun on his heels. Duncan let out a relieved gasp. They crossed over to the frontiersman. Clipper was kneeling on a rooftop, inspecting the wood beneath him as if he were tracking prey. Connor looked over his shoulder to see a particular groove.

One the warrior recognized as a musket ball.

"That could be anything," Duncan deadpanned.

"Yeah, well who leaves a broken window when its cold outside?" Clipper retorted, pointing.

Well, it was certainly odd. But Boston was a place of strife, so Duncan's words held merit. They needed more information.

"Go take a look around," Connor ordered. "There may be something else here."

His recruits nodded and they once again spread out. Clipper continued to inspect the roof like a hawk, while Duncan leaped over to the surrounding buildings, scouting. Connor scanned over the horizon.

If it _was_ involved, it only proved that they were close to where Selah was attacked. But how? He learned from personal experience that she did not drop her guard easily. Was she ambushed? Or… was she trying to flee her assaulter? If that was the case, it explained why they found the musket holes in the roof, not the ground. Selah was an Assassin, after all. She was trained to use her surroundings to her advantage. It was why the Assassin favoured rooftops over the streets. Then again, if Adams and White's story held true, then Selah was in no condition to freerun. Which meant—

Connor swung over the edge of roof. He dropped onto the ledge above a store entrance, breaking his fall, before leaping onto the ground. The native didn't have to travel far.

He halted and took in the scene before him with widened eyes. The muddy alleyway before him was in shambles. There were grooves in the ground and slices across the brick walls. Crates and barrels that once filled the space were either knocked over or broken, having splintered wood covering the ground. Along with glass, from a shattered window of the store. Then Connor saw the blood.

Dark, crimson stains littered the ground. The teenager's stomach twisted when he noticed it was running in slow, ominous trails from splatters on the walls. It was still _wet_. Fresh. There was a nasty fight here. Recently. Very recently.

The Assassin bit his lip to let out a long whistle.

His allies replied within a minute, appearing on the rooftops above him before clambering down. Clipper was the first to land in a crouch, only to recoil at the sight before him.

"Whoa…" he gapped. "I think we're on the right track."

"You think?" Duncan retorted as he landed beside them.

Connor ignored the pair as he sighed through his nose, closing his eyes. When he opened them, his senses mingled together. His friends were a comforting presence beside him, while the blood jumped out at him in an angry color. He wanted to recoil as he tasted iron on his tongue. Instead the boy willed himself to focus on another sense, strong and sharp.

A pull. Toward darkness.

Connor took a step forward, towards the broken window. It almost as tall as him, allowing the Mohawk warrior to step into the shop.

"What are you doing?" Duncan asked, but he was ignored. He and Clipper exchanged confused glances, but followed their friend anyway.

Connor looked around. It seemed like an antique store, filled with odd trinkets of all kinds. No doubt a collector who would be in for an upsetting surprise in the morning. Especially considering the bloody footprints on the floor. Leading to the shimmering door, hidden cleverly within the wall. The door was concealed in the corner of the room, looking more like part of the wall than an entrance. There was even a piece of an elaborate painting that took up half of it, to add to the inconspicuousness. It was a perfect hidden passageway.

The Assassin would have missed it, if the Spirits did not give him the gift of the Sight.

Connor stepped forward, inspecting. No handle, no knob, or groove. Only the shining symbol next to it.

A square and a set of compasses, joined together to form a icon not unlike the one of the Assassins. The Freemasons, descendants of the Brotherhood.

Connor unsheathed his hidden blade. He buried it in the center of the emblem. Sure enough, his blade fit perfectly in the slot like a key with a lock. There was a _click_ of old tumblers being disturbed. The Assassin slowly, cautiously turned the heel of his palm. The lock released and the door popped open. A gust of stale air burst forth, bringing an earthen scent.

"Well, I'll be damned…" Duncan mused, cocking his head at the spectacle.

"Now we know how those thugs have been sneaking around the city," Clipper realized.

Connor eyed the hidden blade of his brace. Achilles's voice rung in his ears. The tunnels were built by the first Assassins of America, before even the time of the Colonial Brotherhood. It was so they could travel quickly, and secretly. And they only made sure only soldiers of freedom could walk in the shadows.

"These tunnels… they were meant for Assassins," Connor told his friends in a low tone. He sensed both of them stiffen.

"You mean…" Clipper gapped.

"That's not a coincidence, is it," Duncan realized.

"Our enemy." Connor closed his fist to keep his hand from trembling. "Is of the Brotherhood."

* * *

Selah flailed against her restraints like a rabid animal. The leather dug into her wrists, rubbing her skin raw. She hit her head several times against the metal table, with enough force to summon a mild headache. She didn't pay any mind, spitting and hissing against her captor. Wolcott only sighed at the display.

"You're a troublesome one, aren't you?" he drawled in a monotone voice, as if he didn't see her as a threat.

Selah growled menacingly, but the man ignored her as he walked over to a table full of instruments. His back blocked the woman's view of what was he was doing as he meddled with something.

"You won't get away with this!" Selah screeched. "Haytham will have your head!"

"Oh, I'm sure he'll try," Wolcott retorted, bored.

The prisoner blanched as he turned, a syringe filled with a strange liquid in hand. Her struggles increased with fervor, but they were futile as Wolcott gripped her chin in a firm hold.

"Hush, hush, hush," he chided impatiently, painfully turning her head so expose her carotid artery.

She hissed as the thin needle impeded in her skin. She heart raced faster as she felt a cold sensation spread through her veins.

"Don't fret," Wolcott assured, as if he could read her thoughts. "This won't kill you. It'll merely cause your muscles to relax, but does not dull your senses. It took me years to perfect it. Amazing, isn't it? How just a single compound can have such an effect on the body?"

Selah's skin prickled as the man rambled on, turning back around. He sounded like a doctor preaching about miracles of medicine—not a madman drabbling in alchemy. Still, Selah failed to understand why even O'Brien seemed to have such confidence in such a person. Wolcott did not seem to be interested in the Irishman's crusade for revenge.

"Why are doing this?" Selah asked.

"So troublesome patients like you don't flail about while I work," Wolcott answered simply. Instead of asking what he meant by "work," Selah corrected, "Why are you working for O'Brien?"

"I do not _work_ for O'Brien," the mad doctor corrected, even waving a scolding finger. "This is a partnership—a _mutual_ one."  
"How so?"

The Brit scoffed, as if it was a ridiculous question. "Kenway won't miss a few agents. O'Brien finds a few… _volunteers_ , and relieves them of their duties. I get to practice my research however I see fit, and in return, that ignoramus thinks he's accomplishing that ridiculous errand of his."

Selah would not consider the total eradication of the Templar Order a fool's errand. Utter madness, most definitely, but she wouldn't take it as lightly as Wolcott was. The information she had been told confused her.

It seemed the scientist didn't care less about O'Brien's mission. Instead, he was in this plot merely for his sole benefit. For what? _Research_? She knew some doctors stepped out of the bounds of their parameters to "explore" the fields of medicine and human anatomy. Even Benjamin Church admitted to such activities. Such experiments always disturbed her. The human body was not something to be manipulated. Cadavers were one thing, but a _living_ subject?

Selah suppressed her disgusted shiver, and instead attached to something else Wolcott said. Haytham. However, he said the name in a disgusted spat. Like there was a bitter history.

"You know Haytham?" she dared to speak up.

Once again, the man's back was turned to her, meddling with his tools again. Although he was distracted, he was still chatty. However, Selah knew her opportunity to get answers from her captor was short. She could already feel the heavy numbness settling in her limbs. The doctor's lip curled at the mention of the name.

"You mean the pompous prick that calls himself a Grandmaster?" he spat. " _Yes,_ I know him."

"You're a Templar…" Selah realized, widening her eyes.

"I am no more a Templar than you are an Assassin, little girl."

His bitter tone made Selah grit her teeth. "You're a traitor."

"No, _you_ are a traitor. I am simply a man that found a better opportunity."

"By working for a madman?!"

Despite his weight and old age, Wolcott moved too quickly for the prisoner to follow. Suddenly his fingers intertwined with her hair, tugging viciously. Selah cried out as the sensitive roots were pulled.

"Don't make me repeat myself, little girl," Wolcott growled. "I _hate_ repeating myself."

Selah merely hissed as he relented his grip, leaving her scalp stinging. Bile rose to her throat as she felt his gloved fingers ghost through her hair, deceptively light.

"You have pretty hair, don't you?" the scientist mused. Selah was taken aback.

"W-what?"

His breath-like observation returned to his logical tone. "I can't imagine that's practical, as long it is." He took a strand between his fingers and Selah cringed as he pulled it taunt alongside the length of her body. "Good Lord, it goes down to your hip."

Most women held their hair in perfect buns on the top of their heads, something that the warrior never accomplished. She tried an occasional braid, but it would fall out too quickly. So she rather have it flicked over her shoulder, out of the way. There was an occasional dirty fighter that would give her a cheating tug, but Selah would quickly make them regret their mistake.

But she had no idea why it was suddenly of importance to Wolcott. He looked down at her, not with the look that some men leered her with, but an expression just as nasty. She had no chance to question it.

Without warning, Wolcott flipped out a thin knife. Selah shut her eyes in a flinch, preparing to feel a stab of pain, only to hear a soft _rip._ A weight vanished from her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Selah demanded, glaring at the Brit as he played with the cut strand of her hair.

"Getting this mess out of the way," Wolcott sniffed as he dropped it like a discarded piece of trash. "How you work with such a weight is beyond me."

Selah seethed. "Don't you _dare_!"

"Rejoice, I won't hurt you just yet. I rather see how you deal with stress, first."

With that, the mad doctor brought the blade down again.

* * *

Connor covered the man's widened mouth as he impeded his hidden blade into his victim's spine. There was a gurgling sound, and then the weight became heavy in the Assassin's arms. The native heard a wet thud down the hallway, signalling Clipper had dispatched the second guard.

"At least we know we're in the right place," Duncan mused from behind Connor.

"We cannot be sure until we find Selah," the Mohawk warrior replied through gritted teeth.

"Got a locked door up here," Clipper called from up ahead.

Removing his blade from his kill, Connor rose to his feet and the pair joined the frontiersman. Sure enough, the boy was glaring at the metal door in front of him, arms crossed in frustration.

"That's an interesting touch," Duncan observed as they neared.

Connor agreed. In all the years he had spent with the colonists, he had only seen a couple iron doors. Finding enough of the material was hard, and making it into the perfect mold to fit a doorframe was harder. It was certainly odd to find one here, in the bowels beneath Boston, and not a prison.

"Have any ideas?" Clipper asked, glancing at his friend.

Connor considered. There was only a single lantern illuminating the door, its pool of light stretching only for a feet few before abruptly ending to pitch darkness. The light reflected off the stone corridor the Assassins had just come from. There were no branching hallways, or separate rooms. The door was the only way forward.

It only confused Connor. Building an airtight, locked door deep in the tunnels was risky. Cave-ins were a constant threat in the underground network. Several areas had already collapsed after decades of pressure. Should another happen, those on the other side of the door had no way to escape—or to breathe. There had to an alternative route, or at least an air-shaft. The Assassin squinted through the darkness and craned his neck up. There!

A crevice, several feet above the door. Orange, flickering light filtered through. Along with a soft, stale wind.

"Perhaps one of us can slip through to get to the other side," Connor mused. His allies followed his gaze.

"If one of us is skinny enough, yeah," Duncan observed.

"I can do it," Clipper volunteered. "Need a boost, though."

Connor nodded and turned, his back to the door. He bent his knees to gain leverage and cupped his hands as the frontiersman unslung his rifle, handing it to Duncan.

"Take care of it," Clipper ordered.

The Irishman merely nodded and stepped to the side as the teenager leaned forward. With an exchange of nods, Clipper charged forward. Using the skill Connor taught him, he dug his heel in the Mohawk's palm, just as the warrior pushed up with a grunt of effort. There was the sound of heels scraping against stone and a strained groan.

"Got it!" Clipper assured.

Feeling the debris the frontiersman was kicking down on him, Connor stepped out from beneath the fellow teenager and craned his neck up. The rifleman was wiggling facefirst through the crevice, legs flailing in the air. The native was afraid the boy would get stuck, only for his heels to vanish through the crevice. A moment later, there was a distant thud of impact.

"Holy…" Clipper's muffled voice came. "You two might want to see this."

"We would if you'd open the damned door," Duncan seethed.

There was a pause, then a muffled shuffle. A series of clanks came from the door. It opened slowly, even though it looked like Clipper was pressing his entire weight against it. Judging by the thickness alone, it had to be heavy. It confused Connor further. Why was such a thing here?

Stepping through the threshold, he quickly realized why. Every muscle in his body froze, eyes going wide.

Walls that were once stone were replaced with doors of metal, nearly identical to the one they just opened. Except each door had a barred window, some having white faces behind it.

"It's a prison…" Duncan gasped. "So this is where the gang keeps their quarry."

Connor forced himself forward, trying to peer inside the little portals of the doors. Sometimes a terrified expression would greet him. Sometimes a curled, black silhouette. Sometimes nothing. Whispers surrounded the boy.

"W-who's there?"

"Help me… Please…"

"Why am I here? No one will tell me!"

Rage thawed the frozen shock in the native's rage. It wasn't enough the gang bullied and assaulted and suppressed the masses, solely for their own benefit. But they would steal the people's freedom. For what? What would drive a man to do such?

Everytime Connor neared a door, any figure beyond would retreat. So he paused in the center of the hallway and dared to raise his voice.

"Who did this to you? Who took you?" he asked, praying the prisoners could hear him and answer.

"That _traitor,_ Wolcott," a cracked voice spat.

Connor tilted his head and stepped forward to a cell. There was a woman, curled in a ball on the floor, either to protect her modesty or for warmth. Her dress so tattered that her skirt had been completely ripped off. Her legs, however, were covered by long, leather boots that went up to her thighs. All that remained of her clothing was a black and red corset, her shoulders covered by a leather jacket.

In the light, the woman's features would have been fair, except the dim light left shadows on her hollow cheeks. Black, dried blood covered her temple and there were scratches on her neck. Dark brown, bushy hair that fell behind her shoulder was unkempt and greasy. Her piercing eyes looked feral, glaring at Connor with unconcealed, venomous hate. Hate he recognized.

"You're… a Templar," he realized.

"Felicia Moreno, a _pleasure_ to meet you," the woman hissed in a tone that meant it was anything but. "So did O'Brien finally kill enough Templars that Haytham had to send Assassins?"

"...Haytham did not send us."

"Pity. I'll be made the laughing stock if anyone finds out I was rescued by the Brotherhood."

"Mind telling us who Wolcott is?" Duncan demanded, stepping next to Connor.

"He _was_ a prestigious doctor for our Order. Until he went off his hook and Kenway sent us to find his head."

"Us?" Connor echoed.

"Jack was our fearless leader. Haven't seen him in some time. Probably dead by now."

"What makes you say that?"

"That's what happens when you been here too long," a second voice, this one deep and gravelly. "They get tired of ya."

Connor followed the source to another cell. This one held a man, slouched against the wall instead of on the floor. Although he looked no better. Dressed in torn and dirty undershirt and too big of trousers, without any shoes to speak of. His hair was wild and mangy, falling to his shoulders in a wild manner. He heard turned when the Assassin approached, only for the Mohawk warrior to flinch.

The piercing glare alone was unnerving, but then there were the scars. They crossed over the man's entire narrow face. Some were a white pale, some were a healing pink, and some were still crusted over with blood. The little wounds were so numerous that it almost looked like some overlapped, and some looked reopened.

"I thought you all were dead," the prisoner commented drily. Connor knew was he meant.

"The Brotherhood still lives," he answered, only to receive a scoff.

"You're not Achilles's, then. His Brotherhood died a long time ago."

The man sounded sure and bitter at the same time. But it did not carry that same hate that most Templars spoke with.

"Who are you?" Connor asked. Another scoff.

"A name never mattered to me," the prisoner answered. "A shadow doesn't need one." Connor glared, not in the mood for riddles. It only seem to amuse the man, who gave a crooked smile, "But I guess if ya need one, my Brothers called me Joe."

"We will free you, Brother," the Assassin vowed.

"I'm not your 'brother.' I'm not with the Brotherhood. Don't bother yourself with right and wrong, just slit the bastard's throat and be done with it."

"Wolcott."

"No, the other one. O'Brien. He wants to finish where Achilles left off. Him and the other Mentors: Ah Tabai, Mackandal, Cacicaná."

"Does he run this prison?" Connor demanded.

"He runs the whole goddamned underworld, kid."

"Where is he?"

"Hell if I know."

"I can help with that!" a woman called, further down the hallway. "If it means you can get me out of this shithole!"

There was an impatient pounding of a door, demanding freedom. The Assassins heed the call, meeting another prisoner, in the same state as the others. She merely wore a tattered dress that came down to her calves and thin, holed socks as her only protection from the damp air. Her skin was pale, but not as unhealthy as the others, signalling she had not been here as long. Her brown eyes still blazed with anger and determination, even though her black hair was in disarray. There was blood on her sleeve, and Connor questioned if it was hers or not.

"Where?" Duncan repeated.

"He came by, a few hours ago," the woman answered. "Bringing another lab rat for the mad doctor."

"This lab rat," Clipper approached. "What did they look like?"  
"It was only because of her long hair I knew she was a woman. She was dressed like a man."

Immediately Connor's heart quickened. That _had_ to be Selah.

"Do you know where they went?" he demanded.

The woman pointed down the hallway. "Down towards the laboratory. If you are going devise a rescue mission, I suggest you hurry. She didn't look so good."

"What about us?!" Moreno asked from her cell.

"We'll free you," Connor vowed. " _All_ of you." He turned, locking gazes with a curious Joe. "After O'Brien is dead."

"I can wait," the veteran nodded in approval.

"I can't!" Moreno screeched. "Let me out, you bloody Assassins!"

"Make the bastard pay," the woman requested. Suddenly she raised her brows, like she remembered something. "Oh, and I almost forgot. Name's Dobby Carter."

* * *

Selah clenched her teeth tight, too tight. Any more pressure and they would crack, if they hadn't already. Her nails dug in her palms, painfully, as Wolcott sliced off the last strand of hair. The woman fought hard not to let the tears escape, knowing it was a weakness and the madman merely wanted a reaction.

By some mercy he did not shave her head naked just for his amusement. But it was still cut too short to her scalp, like a man's. A couple spots of sensitive skin of her scalp stung with pain from when Wolcott's knife sliced too carelessly. The rest of her hair, which took _years_ to grow, made a thin layer across the ground. Selah did not dare look, merely glared daggers her tormenter as he turned his back to her once again.

"See? That wasn't too bad now, was it?" Wolcott inquired in a fake tone.

"Is that why Haytham sought to have you killed?" the prisoner spat. "You forgot yourself a doctor and made yourself a barber?"

"I saw myself as an innovator! I would open whole new fields of science and medicine! And what does Kenway tell me to do?" Wolcott's voice turned into a high-pitched, rich accent, an utter mockery of Haytham's smooth one. "'Quit your research and focus on more practical matters.' Puh!"

"Because Haytham realized your work was mad."

"And I realized I would accomplish nothing being his lapdog. Now, I have the liberty to experiment with whatever I like. In fact, how would you like to help with a new idea I have been testing?"

Selah glared. "No."

Wolcott merely shrugged and turned to an array of sharp-looking tools. "I thought you might say that. No matter."

The prisoner renewed her struggles. "What are you doing?"

"I am sure you are familiar with Leonardo Da Vinci?" the scientist replied with his own question.

"No."

The man ignored her sarcastic reply. "A brilliant inventor. He even made weapons for the Borgia, which a lot of people don't know. Another detail that escapes their attention is that he was quite fascinated in anatomy. He opened quite a few doors."

"What does this have to do with anything?" Selah demanded.

"Including," Wolcott continued, ignoring her as he held up a scalpel, "an interesting study about the heart. Did you know, that Da Vinci corrected the misconception that the human heart had only two chambers. He found four."

What the hell was he babbling about?

"The only thing he could not understand, though, was _how_ these chambers interacted."

"By contracting, you fool," Selah snapped.

"Da Vinci found it was more complicated than that. Apparently, this system isn't so perfect. Such as, why did some suffer failures of the heart and others did not?"

"Maybe because God grew tired of them."

"I read over Da Vinci's notes. Astounding, the amount of detail a single human can conceive. He tested his theories of the hearts on hogs, but never a human." A gleam appeared in the man's eyes. "I know O'Brien said to make it hurt, so I pray this will be painful enough."

Selah's blood turned to ice.

"N-no, you're _mad_!" she screeched.

"I am merely opening a door to a new world," Wolcott purred. "Now, this will be much less painful if you stop moving."

He snatched her shirt, wrinkling in his tight grip as he pressed down, painfully.

" _No_!"

Her ear-splitting protest fell on deaf ears as the madman pressed the tip of the scalpel against her shirt, right above the heart. Apparently he was so eager that he was simply going to cut the linen away rather than remove it. He pressed down, and Selah hissed as a sharp prick came from her skin.

Selah was no stranger to blood—hell, there had been times her clothes had been effectively ruined by another man's. But seeing even the smallest trace lost to this demon in a man's skin… Bile rose to her throat and her head spun.

Wolcott merely grinned wickedly.

"Oh, I will enjoy the satisfaction of knocking Haytham to the ground when I send his precious _bitch_ — _piece_ by p—"

The doctor's vow was cut off by a sharp, wet, gurgling sound. Selah felt something wet splatter across her face. She stared up at her captor, wide-eyed, only for her eyes to lock on the wooden shaft that had impeded in his throat. The tip had projected out from the otherside, severing his neck artery, throat, spine.

An arrow.

Wolcott's eyes bulged out of his skull as his hands weakly reached up. He could not grip the arrow, merely touching the wood with his fingertips helplessly. He gasped for air that did not come. There was only that awful sound as blood poured from the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly Victor Wolcott's eyes glazed and he fell to the ground with a dull thud.

Selah's mouth was agape and her eyes were wide at the bloody death, panting from a breath she had not realized she was holding. He had been killed by an arrow. Just like-

The Templar snapped her neck to the other side of the room. There was a tall figure silhouetted against the light of the hallway, slowly lowering his bow to his side.

The Assassin.

Connor.

* * *

 **Historical trivia: Assassin's Creed focuses Leonardo Da Vinci's inventions, as such he was a brilliant inventor, but he is also responsible for our modern understanding of anatomy. Dissecting dozens of cadavers, he mapped out the skeletal system and the muscular system. He also had a fascination of the heart. Before he researched it, the anatomy of the heart was vague, but he discovered it contracted by a twisting motion of the four chambers. Although his research wouldn't be discovered for hundreds of years later, it aided modern doctors in understanding the nature of heart failure. The reason his research was so underrated for so long, was because medical experiments, especially autopsies, were considered disgusting and violating during this time period.**


End file.
